


dearly beloved

by mutalune



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is also Bad at Feelings, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Genderfluid Character, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sappy, crowley's stress is his worst enemy and it ruins everything he tries to do tbh, insecurity aplenty, love and fuzzy things are the main purpose of this, slaps crowley: this bad boy can fit so much love and stress in it, weddings are stressful my friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-07-24 00:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20017447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutalune/pseuds/mutalune
Summary: Aziraphale’s the only one in existence who, if he said, “Yes, I believe we have to set the entire world on fire now,” Crowley would say in return, “If you’re sure, then I got some accelerant in the trunk. What? No reason, really, just had it there in case of emergency. You never know.”(Aziraphale would likely ask, “What emergency would accelerant be necessary for?” and Crowley would retort, “Well it’s certainly coming in handy NOW, isn’t it? So I suppose this emergency.”And Aziraphale would press his lips together all indignantly and Crowley would have to dig his fingernails into his palm to keep himself from launching himself at Aziraphale to kiss him silly because apparently they have to start some fires.)





	1. in which aziraphale and crowley rush into getting married, but can it really be considered rushing when they've been pining for six millennia?

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone - good omens is still 99% of my life currently so here we are again! i hope people enjoy this half as much as i've enjoyed writing it. there's still 1 or 2 chapters left to write, but the rest only need some editing and will be posted fairly quickly. 
> 
> thanks for stopping by! i'm at dissatisfied-starlight on tumblr if you'd like to chat

The thing is, it’s been six thousand years. 

Six thousand fucking years. 

Crowley has spent six bloody thousand fucking years loving Aziraphale. 

Six millennia. The centuries were interspersed with some decades here or there of “No, certainly not. Wouldn’t do for a demon to do that whole love nonsense, right? Must be lust, if it’s anything, which it isn’t... Who’d lust for one of the Heavenly dorks? Not me, not Anthony J. Crowley, no sir-ee. A bunch of do-gooders with bright smiles and those blue eyes you could just - No, it must be anything but love. Annoyance maybe. It’s probably annoyance,” but for the most part, it’s been ceaseless adoration for his angel. 

There’s never been anyone else for him. There couldn’t be, not when Aziraphale exists. And he’s just selfish enough of a prick to refuse to go through all of human history alone, so the only option is to be with Aziraphale in whatever capacity he’d allow and to endure it at whatever cost. 

Aziraphale wants someone to blame for his indulgences? Crowley can do that. Easily. With great pleasure, too, so “tempting” generally ends up being a win-win situation. There’s nothing in the world more satisfying than successfully convincing Aziraphale to order an extra dessert and watching him take that first, blissful bite. 

Aziraphale wants someone to reassure him that he made the right decision? Crowley will enable and validate the fuck out of him. He has never lied when he said that he doesn’t think Aziraphale can do anything wrong - he’s the quintessential angel. A little dense, a little trigger-happy, but his heart’s always been in the right place. Aziraphale’s the only one in existence who, if he said, “Yes, I believe we have to set the entire world on fire now,” Crowley would say in return, “If you’re sure, then I got some accelerant in the trunk. What? No reason, really, just had it there in case of emergency. You never know.” 

(Aziraphale would likely ask, “What emergency would accelerant be necessary for?” and Crowley would retort, “Well it’s certainly coming in handy NOW, isn’t it? So I suppose this emergency.” 

And Aziraphale would press his lips together all indignantly and Crowley would have to dig his fingernails into his palm to keep himself from launching himself at Aziraphale to kiss him silly because apparently they have to start some fires.) 

So really, when Aziraphale says, “Crowley, I’ve been in love with you for centuries and I would very much like it if you would kiss me,” who is Crowley to deny him? 

Additionally: How could Crowley possibly, in any universe, say no to that? Why in the world would Aziraphale be looking at him all pale and trembling and scared when this is all that Crowley’s wanted for six fucking thousand bloody long LONG years? 

Anyone watching would’ve thought that Eve had been tempted by a spectacularly limber frog rather than a snake, going off of the way he leaps and latches himself onto Aziraphale’s face. He isn’t proud of the noise he makes when he finally (FINALLY) gets to kiss those delightfully soft lips, but Aziraphale doesn’t fare much better. His squeak is somewhat reminiscent of a door that hasn’t been oiled in decades and Crowley wishes, desperately, that he could make it his ringtone. That he could record that specific noise and play it for hours to remind him of this exact, perfect moment. 

His legs are wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist, and his hands have found their way into Aziraphale’s hair. To Crowley’s delight, both his thighs and curls are as soft as he had imagined. He must be making an awful mess of his hair, but Aziraphale has somehow pulled him closer and he isn’t capable of focusing on anything else except how wonderful Aziraphale’s hands are. One is cupping his face, and the other is wrapped around his waist and supporting his weight. 

He whines pitifully when Aziraphale pulls out of the kiss. “Wait, no, come back - “ 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says breathlessly. “Did you - “ 

“Seriously, we don’t have anywhere to be for at least a few years and neither of us needs to breathe, get back here - “ He tries to reel Aziraphale back in, tugging on his hair. 

Aziraphale makes a little “Ngk” noise at the tug, which - that’s something Crowley can’t think about immediately without imploding, but he makes a mental note of it and marks it with, “Very Important Aziraphale Knowledge - Review At Earliest Convenience,” in bright red ink. 

He takes advantage of Crowley’s moment of astonishment to clear his throat and say, “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. I’m in love with you and I.” His voice gives out and Crowley gets the pleasure of watching his face flush as he scrambles for words. “I would like for us to be together. Exclusively and permanently.” 

“Sick,” Crowley says without thinking. “Me too. The whole love thing, I mean. And the exclusivity and permanently thing. It’s always been you, you know.” 

“Really?” Aziraphale suddenly looks fragile, and Crowley frowns. “I know I’m a horrible bother - I’m particular and sensitive, and I’m very soft - “ 

“And I have loved all of that and more about you for millennia,” Crowley interrupts. “So. Your point?” 

“I just - “ 

“No, nevermind, you’re going to say something stupid so let’s skip it entirely. I don’t want to hear you badmouth my lover. Come here and kiss me again.” 

Aziraphale, predictably, melts at Crowley saying “lover,” and has enough time to say, “Darling, I adore you - “ before Crowley successfully attaches his lips to Aziraphale’s again. Still soft and more wonderful than anything else that’s ever been created. 

He tips an imaginary hat off to God - they might not see eye-to-eye on most things, but he’ll admit that She did a damn good job making this angel. She deserves at least a couple dozen fruit baskets for making Aziraphale’s tongue so nice. 

**

A few weeks later, Aziraphale is antsy and acting like he has a secret. It’s adorable (and Crowley can say that now without fearing that he’s going too fast for Aziraphale because they’re together and when you’re together you’re allowed to think your partner’s cute) except that he won’t tell Crowley what it is when he asks. 

“Angel, something’s clearly bothering you,” He says exasperatedly. “Tell me what it is so I can help.” 

“It’s nothing,” Aziraphale insists. His voice is higher-pitched than normal, a clear indicator of his stress. Despite him being an angel in name only these days, he’s never cultivated a sense of how to lie effectively. As previously mentioned, it’s very adorable and makes Crowley’s life a lot easier. “Really, my dear. Nothing to worry about.” 

“I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on, just tell me.” 

“It’s not something I require your help with, dear,” Aziraphale says tightly. “I am gently requesting that you stop pushing.” 

“And I’m forcefully requesting that you tell me what you’re hiding from me so you can stop acting all funny.” 

Aziraphale huffs and crosses his arms. He’s a step below sticking his nose up in the air, and Heaven if that doesn’t make Crowley want to hug him. 

So he does. Because he can do that now, because Aziraphale had shyly said two weeks ago (two weeks, three days, six hours, and approximately twenty minutes ago, but who’s counting?) that he quite likes it when Crowley hugs him and squeezes tightly. He had made a joke about boa constrictors and Crowley fell a little bit more in love with him. 

“Come on, angel,” He says, close to his ear. “You’re clearly stressed. Let me help.” 

“I shan’t be tempted - it’s supposed to be a surprise - “ He immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, and Crowley’s lips tilt into a joyful smile. 

“Ohoho? A surprise?” He nuzzles against Aziraphale’s ear. “For me?” 

“No. Of course not. I hate you.” 

“You love me,” Crowley croons, swaying them lightly. “You love me and you’re planning something special for me and I’m going to find out what it is.” 

Aziraphale hisses, “You fiend.” 

“Guilty! I’m going to go check all of your hiding places now.” 

“Don’t you dare!” 

Crowley spends the next four hours checking all of Aziraphale’s normal spots - beneath his desk, on top of the refrigerator, the bottom drawer in the side table next to the bed he rarely uses, backseat of the Bentley, under the passenger seat in the Bentley, the one tree hole in St. James’, the loose floorboard of his current favorite bakery, and even the secret mini fridge in his closet that he still thinks Crowley doesn’t know about. 

These are, admittedly, Aziraphale’s snack hiding spots. Crowley wouldn’t know if he had any other kinds, so they’re the only ones he can check. All of this being said, it’s unlikely that he has an edible surprise for Crowley since food, while one of their favorite pastimes, isn’t something that would be worth a covert operation of any kind. He also doesn’t think Aziraphale would have the patience to hide food, as he’s really horrible at the whole delayed gratification thing. 

So maybe Crowley knows he’s not going to find whatever it is Aziraphale’s hiding. 

Maybe he never actually wanted to find it. Maybe Crowley wants to be surprised. Maybe he wants to enjoy the show and see what his angel has planned. 

So what? Fuck off. 

He saunters down the stairs to the bookshop and says, “Welp, didn’t find it. I did find the Tim Tams you were hoarding, though.” 

“Did you?” Aziraphale sounds much more interested than he should considering they were at least a decade old. He’s hidden from view and likely in the middle of rearranging his books into some strange order only he understands, but Crowley can hear the way he perks up. “I had forgotten about those. Did you throw them away?” 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Crowley lies. He wipes at his lips to make sure no crumbs were lingering. “They looked like they were older than some of your first editions.” 

“Oh, surely not that old.” 

“They were pretty old, angel.” 

Aziraphale makes a semi-agreeing semi-”I’m humoring you” noise, and Crowley swipes his lips again. Just to be sure. 

“So, um. How long do I have to wait for The Surprise?” He asks nonchalantly. He leans against the bannister to prove how nonchalant he is about The Surprise. Then he remembers that if he can’t see Aziraphale, Aziraphale can’t see him, so maybe that was a little silly. If he straightened out now, though, then that’d be admitting that it was silly, so he stays anyway. He squints at the ceiling and wonders if he could convince Aziraphale to let him dust a little bit - he’s a demon and even he’s a little wigged out by how many cobwebs there are. “Or, what I mean is, how long do I have to try to crack it myself? I’m only getting started - “ 

“I’m afraid that was your only chance. I’m ready now.” 

Crowley’s eyes dart forward and he chokes on air he doesn’t need. 

Aziraphale is dolled up - he’s wearing a black (!) tuxedo, with a white shirt and dark, wine-colored lapels. The bow tie is similarly colored. He’s holding a small something in his left hand while his right arm cradles what appears to be a sapling of some kind. 

He swallows thickly. “What’s uh. What’s all this about then?” 

Aziraphale, like he was when he said, “Crowley, I’ve been in love with you for centuries and I would very much like it if you would kiss me,” (and yes, Crowley memorized those words exactly and holds them close to his heart, and Aziraphale sometimes indulges him and says them for him again too), is horrifically pale. He’s smiling, but Crowley can see the way it trembles just a little bit, the way he’s clutching both items tightly. 

He doesn’t answer for long enough that Crowley has to shakily say, “Well come on, spit it out.” 

After that, it’s like his mouth can’t move fast enough. 

“I love you,” He says. “I love you so much, and finding out that you love me back has made me deliriously happy and it’s made me realize that I don’t like when you’re not here - or, well, not here as in the bookshop, but here as in with me by my side where I can’t help but think you belong. And you know, I have this picture in my head of us standing in front of a beautiful home with an apple tree and a pond in the front yard and now I think that we belong there, together - it’d be so beautiful, dearest, and I’m too selfish to not ask - you know me, you know that I can’t help myself and I can’t help but take as much as I can get so I know this is sudden and I know it is so very selfish of me to push but would you please marry me?” 

Crowley has a brief moment of feeling absolutely nothing. A moment where his brain is processing what has just been hurriedly spat out at him, putting the words together into something he can understand and chew over. He slowly comprehends how perfect Aziraphale looks in Crowley’s own colors, and how cute it is that he still gets so nervous when he knows that Crowley is disgustingly head-over-heels for him. 

Then the moment passes and Crowley, full of more love than he knows what to do with, gracefully loses it. 

“YES of course what the fuck - this is happening!” He shrieks in one breath, sprinting forward to grab Aziraphale and twirl him around. “Fuck yes - yes yes angel yes a million times a million trillion times yes - “ 

“Crowley!” 

He lifts Aziraphale off the ground, hugging him and babbling “yes yes yes I’m going to marry you, we’re going to be married! Married!” like a lunatic while he also tries to kiss whatever bit of him he can get his lips on. He ends up holding him tightly, leaning back and taking Aziraphale’s weight on his core, holding him up enough that he has to tilt his head up to sprinkle kisses all around that giggling, beautiful face. 

Crowley stops long enough to say, breathlessly and heartfelt, “I’m going to be your husband, angel.” 

And Aziraphale beams at him, joy pouring off of him in thick waves. 

As Aziraphale gently slides the engagement ring onto his finger - he’s explaining that he picked a black band to match Crowley’s usual style, but that he couldn’t help himself and had to put a little bit of himself in it, demonstrated by the pale blue stone in the center - Crowley notes that he will do anything - and he does mean anything - to have Aziraphale happy and beaming at the altar. 

He loves Aziraphale, he loves his engagement ring, he loves life and all of its wonderful intricacies, and with that love, he is going to personally ensure they have the most perfect, picturesque, beautiful wedding ever, followed by the most perfect and beautiful marriage the world has ever seen. Everything and anything his fiance wants, Crowley will make sure he has it.


	2. in which crowley is not jealous of jean the baker at all and how dare you accuse him of such

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Crowley, are you alright?” Aziraphale finally asks, swiping at his mouth with his napkin. “You seem… preoccupied.” 
> 
> “We’re getting married,” He says, still sighing happily. “I’m wonderful, angel.” 
> 
> Aziraphale’s napkin falls back into his lap as he smiles widely. “We are,” He says warmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again!!! thank you all for the kudos and comments and bookmarks - it always makes my day better when i get those emails~ 
> 
> here we have the beginning of "the heavy-handed metaphor for crowley's anxiety"!!! i hope it's as heavy-handed as i intended. it'll keep coming around so if it wasn't i assure you it'll be relevant again eventually 
> 
> hope everyone enjoys!

The easiest thing to take care of is the flowers, of course. 

Or it should be.

It should be the easiest, considering that he’s a gardener for fuck’s sake. He’s a damn good one too - his plants tremble underneath the weight of their glossy, larger than life leaves. And perhaps a healthy dose of fear. 

And yet, here, his garden is ruining everything.

“Why,” He hisses, crushing a pitiful rose in his fist. “Why do you continue to disappoint me?” 

They tremble and shake, and they should be quivering too, so he clearly hasn’t made his displeasure known as well as he should. The roses are particularly inconsolable since it’s their screw up that has brought his wrath upon them. A few leaves fall to the ground, and he snarls louder. 

“Cream roses! That is all I’m asking for - this should be nothing! And yet you keep - “ He kneels down next to the bush and scowls, poking at its core branches. “Giving me WHITE roses! This is unacceptable garbage! I should burn this entire building to the ground and grow your replacements in the ASHES, you disgusti-” 

“Crowley, is everything alright?” Aziraphale’s head pops in, and Crowley immediately stands up, folding his arms behind his back. “You were making a bit of a ruckus.” 

“Everything’s perfect,” He lies. He steps forward and bends just enough to kiss his cheek. “Just making sure everyone’s in line over here. You know they misbehave if I’m too easy on them.” 

“Oh, don’t be too harsh,” Aziraphale chides him, patting his face lightly. “I’ll be happy with whatever you have for the wedding, you know. You don’t have to do anything special or put yourself out.” 

“‘Course not, ‘course not,” He says amiably enough. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Doesn’t mean they can slack off, though.” 

“Of course not.” Aziraphale kisses him lightly. “Now finish up so we can go to dinner, yes?” 

Dinner is wonderful, as it always is, but while Aziraphale is humming into his bisque, Crowley can’t take his mind off of his disobedient roses. Yesterday, it had been the baby’s breath - wilting and turning brown, cringing under their fear but still refusing to perform. The day before, the lilies he’s been carefully cultivating to the most beautiful shade of blue (based on Aziraphale’s eye color, of course) decided to turn magenta. 

Magenta. As if Crowley would even consider having magenta in Aziraphale’s bouquet. 

For centuries, Crowley has ruled over his various gardens with an iron fist and whatever threatening weapon he had on hand. He’s created art with flora - one time, when he was branching out from his usual dastardly ways, he was commissioned to create a hedge garden for some monarch with lifesize versions of him and his mistress. 

Mr. Monarch ended up getting killed by Mrs. Monarch since the mistress’s hedge was significantly more beautiful, luscious, and lifelike than the one he had commissioned for her as a wedding gift. This was one of the few occasions where shrubbery assisted with getting him a commendation. [1]

Now, though, he’s fighting a losing battle against flowers of all things. If it was his finicky and strong-willed monsteras, he’d (still be pissed) almost understand it. And then he’d be free to set the misbehaving fucks on fire and be done with it, because monsteras aren’t for bouquets so they’re currently functionally useless. 

Flowers, though, are for bouquets and are normally easy to scare. Normally, they fall into line the minute Crowley even hints he so much as owns a garbage disposal. All those delicate petals and no spine, they’re the perfect pushovers - yet they’re currently ruining everything. 

Crowley pokes at his salad and forces himself not to sigh forlornly. He doesn’t want to have to purchase flowers for their wedding. [2]

Oh, but that’s a good thing. Their wedding. 

This time he does sigh, but it’s a happy sigh. 

Their wedding. 

“Crowley, are you alright?” Aziraphale finally asks, swiping at his mouth with his napkin. “You seem… preoccupied.” 

“We’re getting married,” He says, still sighing happily. “I’m wonderful, angel.” 

Aziraphale’s napkin falls back into his lap as he smiles widely. “We are,” He says warmly. “Did you think at all about what you’d like for the music? Oh, and we still have to discuss the guest list.” 

“Guest list is easy - us, bike girl and the Tadfield troupe, I know you’ll insist on that Tracy lady, and Shadwell will go where she goes I reckon. Then the Dowlings - “ 

“All of them?” Aziraphale asks, a little despairingly. “Of course Warlock, I wouldn’t want them to miss it, and Mrs. Dowling is fine, but the father - “ 

“He’s an idiot,” Crowley agrees. “But there needs to be someone there for me to cause mischief over, and I assume you’d rather I leave the people I actually like to enjoy the festivities.” 

“Oh, good point. Yes, he’ll do quite nicely for that. I daresay Warlock will enjoy that thoroughly as well.” He reaches out to pat Crowley’s hand affectionately. “You’re always so clever, darling.” 

Crowley doesn’t blush because demons don’t blush. But if they did, he would. 

“W-well, yes,” He says. “But yes, so the Dowlings will be invited, as well as the members of their staff we got on with. I think that’ll do it for humans on our list?” 

Aziraphale pauses, tapping a finger against the table. “What about the owner of that French bakery we like?” 

“No.” 

“No?” Aziraphale frowns. “Whyever not?” 

“He’s - you know.” 

He stares. “Do you mean that he’s nice? Friendly? The last of a long line of bakers that have created and supplied us with scrumptious delights for an indeterminate amount of time? Makes your favorite cake, if I’m not mistaken?” 

These are all correct. Jean is a very nice man, and Crowley and Aziraphale have frequented his bakery since his great-great-great-grandmother founded it. Crowley can never say no to a good croissant, just like Aziraphale would risk discorporation for a particularly delectable crepe - Jean and his bakery supply both of those desires and more. And even though they’ve stopped by at least a few times a year since Jean was a child, he never questions why they remain relatively youthful. He hands them their order with a kind smile and polite inquiries about Aziraphale’s bookshop while smiling extra kindly at the angel. 

Very-nice-Jean’s eyes always seem to linger on Aziraphale’s form when they leave. It used to be funny, and Crowley used to feel a weird sort of pride. A, “yes, that’s my best friend and he IS hot, thanks for noticing,” type of feeling. 

In theory, he should feel that twofold since they’re officially together. Crowley should be proud to be with someone so wonderful and desirable. And he thinks that normally, he’d be thrilled to lean on Aziraphale’s arm, smug and secure in the knowledge that the envious spectators would never have him like Crowley does. 

Normally, he can grow roses and baby’s breath and lilies with ease. 

“I just don’t think he should be there,” Crowley says. He swirls his wine in its glass, shrugging. “This is special. I don’t want just anyone showing up.” 

If Aziraphale pushes, Crowley will grumble and eventually agree to it. It’s not like he wouldn’t enjoy the opportunity to rub it in Jean’s face that he never had a chance with his angel, after all. He just would prefer not to have any competition (particularly with an enemy that can bake delicious sweets) showing up and trying his hand at their wedding. 

Aziraphale, wonderful creature that he is, merely sighs and says, “Oh alright. I suppose I see your point.” 

Nice. Take that, Jean. 

“And he’s not certainly not making our cake - I’ll get that sorted for us, yeah?” Crowley winks. “Let me surprise you. A wedding gift from me to you.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale smiles widely. “That’ll be lovely, dear. And for the best, most likely. I wouldn’t be able to choose - there’s red velvet, but that won’t match our color scheme very well, and that puts chocolate out as well. Maybe something fruity? Or almond - oh, there’s nothing like a fluffy almond cake with raspberry filling. Keep that one in mind, Crowley - “ his voice tapers off at Crowley’s amused look. “Right. A surprise. I’ll stop wondering now.” 

“Much obliged, angel.” 

Aziraphale must take that as permission to begin digging into his entrée (something with tartar, Crowley wasn’t really listening when he ordered), and Crowley does the same with his salmon. He nearly smiles around his fork when Aziraphale makes a happy noise into his meal. “We still have a lot to do, you know.” 

Aziraphale licks his lips before saying, “Undoubtedly. We need to make invitations, pick a venue, figure out the catering - and we haven’t picked a date yet.” 

“When did you want it to be? March? April?” He thinks Aziraphale would look splendid in the spring. Bright, sunny day, with flowers just starting to bloom. His flowers, hopefully. Not that he relies on hope for his garden, but - 

“Well, actually. I was thinking October 21st.” 

Crowley blinks. “A fall wedding? I wouldn’t - Wait. Are you - “ 

Aziraphale smiles sheepishly. “It’s the day we met, after all.” 

“The first day,” Crowley says, shaking his head. “You’re such a sap.” 

Now he looks embarrassed, eyes turning down to his plate. He nudges a few crumbs around on his plate, avoiding Crowley’s eyes. “If you don’t want to, I understand, I just thought - “ 

“No no no, it’s spectacularly romantic. I don’t think we could do better. A fall wedding it is!” He holds up his now refilled wine glass and tips it towards Aziraphale. His fingers twitch around it, just a little. “Cuts down our prep time a bit, but nothing I can’t handle.” 

Aziraphale lifts his glass and clinks them together lightly. He says, “Nothing we can’t handle, my dear.” 

“‘Course, of course,” Crowley says, but his mind wanders back to his ugly, useless roses. 

1Crowley had that one hung up for a year or two. It was one of three commendations he both earned without human intervention and was proud of. [return to text]

2Purchase, steal, miracle money to pay for - Crowley tries not to get to caught up in the details of capitalism. Rubbish system, he thinks.[return to text]


	3. in which things get MOVING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The roses don’t get better. They churn out every shade of the rainbow except cream. The baby’s breath has stopped wilting, but it’s not nearly vibrant enough. The lilies refuse to get any lighter. Crowley has long since moved past anger - in the past three months, he’s cycled through depression, denial, sweet talk, and has recently become desperate enough to attempt bribery. 
> 
> “The sunniest window,” He pleads, on his knees next to the roses. “Please. Show me one cream rose and I’ll move you to the east window - it’s the best one, you get all of that nice morning sunlight! Really a treat, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so first off! sorry for changing the title - i decided the original was too long (for those who are just joining us: the academic paper style title of this is - dearly beloved: we're gathered here today to join two idiots in semi-holy matrimony) 
> 
> second! thank you again for the kudos and kind comments <3 you're all sweet and i hope you continue to enjoy this. this chapter's a bit of a transition one, but bear with me...

The roses don’t get better. They churn out every shade of the rainbow except cream. The baby’s breath has stopped wilting, but it’s not nearly vibrant enough. The lilies refuse to get any lighter. Crowley has long since moved past anger - in the past three months, he’s cycled through depression, denial, sweet talk, and has recently become desperate enough to attempt bribery. 

“The sunniest window,” He pleads, on his knees next to the roses. “Please. Show me one cream rose and I’ll move you to the east window - it’s the best one, you get all of that nice morning sunlight! Really a treat, you know.” 

The roses are dangerously blasé about his offer. They stop short of sticking their metaphorical noses in the air, but only just. 

Crowley leans forward and mutters, “You know - don’t tell the others - but you’ve always been my favorite. And it’s not like I want the cream roses! You know how the angel is. So particular - “ Here, he rolls his eyes as if in commiseration. “So, really, we’re in this together. My friend - help me help you. I want to help you! I badly, badly want to help you get to that beautiful, sunny window.” 

They perk up a little, but Crowley doesn’t relax just yet. He adds, “Give me enough cream roses for a bouquet, and I will personally ensure your permanent position at the east window. It has its own climate control, and I’ll set up an automatic mister - whatever you want, friend. That’s all. Just one, measly bouquet. This isn’t even a challenge for a tough guy like you, is it?” 

He watches the bush in silence, breathing a sigh of relief when it appears to be appeased and content. Carefully, he stands up with hands carefully folded behind his back and out of sight. “Wonderful. We have a deal. You won’t regret it, friend, it’ll be - “ 

“Crowley, please finish up- we’re supposed to be on our way to Tadfield by now!” Aziraphale must have finished packing up the Bentley - the wedding isn’t for another week, but they wanted to take some of the supplies up and check on the venue.* 

The Bentley, if Aziraphale is on schedule, will now be full of the favors he tenaciously folded and packed, the tuxes he picked out, tableware, and the blackmail material Crowley has on their photographer. [3]

“Yeah yeah, I’m coming!” He carefully backs out of the greenroom, closing the door gently. For a brief moment, he leans his forehead against the door and tries to slow his racing heart. 

It’s hard to believe that they’re so close to the Big(gest) Day (Ever). 

(And yes, Crowley does include Armageddon in this statement. Weddings are finicky and picky about the details, whereas Armageddon merely needed to be stopped. Didn’t matter how incompetently it was stopped - as long as it was, they won. 

Crowley’s additional justification is that if the wedding goes poorly, he will have to spend the rest of eternity regretting and knowing without a doubt when he looks at Aziraphale that he doesn’t deserve this angel. If Armageddon had actually happened, at least Crowley would have other, non-Azirapahle-related things to worry about. [4]) 

It’s even harder to believe that in a week, he’ll have irrefutable proof that he and Aziraphale were meant to be. According to Aziraphale’s logic, God not ruining the entire day by smiting both of them on the spot when Aziraphale proposed is the equivalent of Her blessing. Meaning that: Somewhere in God’s Ineffable Plan, She decided that he and Aziraphale belonged together. 

Unless She doesn’t actually approve and the wedding somehow goes horribly. 

Which it won’t, of course.

Obviously. 

It has to go well - not just well. It has to go perfectly. He’s taken every precaution, he’s planned everything out to the minute, he’s worked his fingers to the bone, and there is nothing he hasn’t accounted for. He’s the best demonic wedding planner there is, and considering how intense Type-A planning folk tend to get, that’s saying something. 

At Aziraphale’s yelled, “Crowley! Is everything alright?” he stands up straight and ignores the queasy feeling in his stomach. 

One last breath, and he calls back, “I said I was coming! Isn’t patience a virtue or something? That’s your whole schtick!” 

By the time he’s surfaced and is crawling into the driver’s seat, Aziraphale is seated in his seat. Semi-seated, maybe, considering he’s damn near wiggling in his seat. Despite his undignified movements, he somehow manages to say, primly, “I’m not going to apologize for being excited. I will apologize for rushing you, though.”

“It’s still a week away,” Crowley says, lips twitching. “If you’re this excited now, I’m slightly concerned about the day of.” 

“Come now - You can’t tell me you’re not also near-bursting with joy!” Aziraphale leans in close and kisses his face lightly, grinning cheekily. 

“Maybe not in those words exactly. Makes me sound fluffy.” 

“My dear, you are fluffy.” 

“Blasphemy.” 

Aziraphale laughs. “Crowley, dear, you’ve been more excited than I’ve been - I was starting to think you’d vibrate out of your shoes when we were sorting out the seating chart, you know.” 

Crowley still isn’t completely sure that putting Anathema and Newt at the same table was a good idea. Sure, they’re technically each other’s dates, but he’s not overly thrilled with another lovey-dovey couple potentially taking away the shine of him and Aziraphale getting to be a lovey-dovey couple in public for the first time in six bloody fucking thousand damn years. 

He manages a smirk and says, “You know me - always a sucker for interpersonal friction.” 

Aziraphale’s face turns oddly, and he starts to blush. After a moment, Crowley bursts out laughing. 

“Dirty! I like where your head’s at, angel - “ 

“Oh hush!” Aziraphale buries his face in his hands, shaking his curls everywhere. “It’s hardly my fault that you’re - it was a reasonable thought to have!” 

“Yeah, reasonably dirty! I’ve corrupted you well and good now,” He cackles. “A week from now, ring on your finger and filthy, filthy thoughts in your mind, there’ll be no turning back!” 

Some tension has loosened from his shoulders - time with Aziraphale always seems to help him feel more grounded. He laughs a little while longer while Aziraphale pretends like his lips aren’t valiantly straining to curve into a smile. 

Once Crowley’s teasing tapers off, Aziraphale reaches over and takes his hand. “You do know that I would never be able to walk away from this, don’t you? I couldn’t turn back. Even if I could bear being apart from you, I wouldn’t. Wedding or no wedding, ring or no ring.” 

Crowley wants to make a crack about saving the sentimental nonsense for their vows, and how he would put money on scrawny-nerd-boy being the first one to start bawling if Aziraphale would whip something out like that little speech. 

Instead, he says, “Ngk - well - psh - I mean - “ 

Aziraphale strokes a thumb across the back of his hand and smiles. “Me too, dear.” 

The rest of the drive is spent in companionable silence, during which Crowley’s heart feels fit to bursting and he subsequently decides that if those stupid roses aren’t perfectly cream by next week, he might have to end the world himself. 

3 Aziraphale, at this point, had spent a month learning how to fold the party favors just right. During that time, Crowley handled the catering, the logistics of getting tables (and chairs, and enough lighting, and silverware, and tablecloths, and every other odd end), the decorations, and sending out the invitations. 

This was followed by Aziraphale spending another month picking out their tuxedos while Crowley worked on finding a non-denominational and non-government-sponsored officiant, a photographer, and a DJ that didn’t immediate object to their playlist. Then while Aziraphale debated between both of them wearing black or mixing it up, Crowley was busy threatening all of the best of that lot until they cleared their schedule for October 21st. [return to text]

4 Like death, suffering, eternal Hell or Heaven, no more wine, etc.[return to text]


	4. in which crowley and newt bro it up and gush over their significant others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now wait just a second,” Crowley says, more desperately than he’d care for. “Why do we need a bachelor’s party? We’ve been bachelors for six millennia - Don’t exactly need to celebrate that, in my opinion.” He throws his arms up for emphasis. “That’s the whole reason we’re getting married! Because being a bachelor is stupid and we’re done with that nonsense now!” 
> 
> “Stop being difficult,” Aziraphale says, rolling his eyes but also smiling. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it.” 
> 
> “Am not!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consistent chapter length is for people who actually pay attention to story structure and sadly i'm a loser so that ain't me folks 
> 
> thank you for the kudos and kind words!!! here we get crowley's bachelor party which of course involves him getting drunk and talking about how great aziraphale is lmao 
> 
> i'm over at dissatisfied-starlight on tumblr if you'd ever like to chat good omens - thanks all! hope you enjoy!!!

When they arrive at Tadfield [5], bike girl’s twingy beau opens the door for them. They had graciously offered to let the grooms store wedding supplies at their cottage until day-of, and since neither he nor Aziraphale are the gracious “oh thank you but no, that’s alright,” type, Crowley has approximately ten boxes in his arms ready to be unloaded. 

“Hello,” Twingy beau says, already fidgeting with his hands. “Anathema said that you could put your things anywhere except in front of the TV.” 

Crowley, because at his core he’s who he is, says, “Got it,” and proceeds to dump everything in front of the television. 

Bike girl’s beau sighs and says, “She also said you’d put them there anyway and to tell you that Aziraphale would want you to be on your best behavior.” 

Bike girl is the worst kind of know-it-all because she has probably never been wrong in her entire life. And she knows it, too. Part of Crowley admires her for her cleverness while the rest of him is annoyed that she takes Aziraphale’s side on everything. And unlike with Aziraphale, Crowley can’t charm his way out of her displeasure.

Thus, with Anathema and Aziraphale’s wrath on the line, Crowley can do no more than grumble and nudge the boxes to the left. “Whatever. I wanted them here anyway.” 

Twingy beau raises his hands and says, “Hey, I’m not in any place to judge anyone for being, er, whipped. It’s fine.” 

“Don’t commiserate with me, we’re not the same - “ 

“Crowley, dear, did you remember to pack the centerpieces?” Aziraphale asks, walking backwards through the cottage door with his arms laden with canvas bags full of table settings and the like. His face is slightly reddened from exertion. 

Crowley’s rushing forward before his brain catches up, muttering, “Why are you carrying so much - here, give some of that here, you’re going to fall over.” 

“I’m an ethereal, divine being! I can handle some bags - “ 

“Yeah yeah yeah, just hand ‘em over.” 

Twingy beau has the nerve to mutter, “Oh yes. Not the same at all.” 

Crowley’s too busy trying to find a way to delicately stack the bags with the favors in them to retaliate appropriately. Aziraphale had worked so hard to learn how to fold the gift boxes just right, had painstakingly packed them with homemade cocoa mix, and squishing even a single one (even if its the one for Thaddeus Dowling) is out of the question. He settles on laying them carefully on top of the boxes he had brought in, three to a row and a few on the floor next to them. 

Bike girl has finally made an appearance - her apron is inside out, and her glasses are slightly fogged. 

“Aziraphale, it’s so good to see you again!” She says warmly, stepping forward to greet him with a hug. Aziraphale welcomes it, patting her back. “You’re glowing - literally. Your aura is nearly blinding right now. I might have to borrow your fiance’s sunglasses.” 

“Oh dear, my apologies,” Aziraphale says sheepishly. “I guess I am rather worked up. All this excitement, you know? I’ll try to rein it in.” 

“It’s lovely that you’re so happy, but my eyes would appreciate it.” She turns to Crowley and waves. “You too, fiend. You’re worse than he is.” 

Crowley scoffs. “Please. I’m a demon, my aura is black as night. I don’t ‘glow’.” Another, louder scoff to drive it home. “Must be hellfire you’re seeing.” 

Anathema levels him with a Look. Even with fogged glasses and frizzy hair, she is clearly a Woman Who Knows Things and She Will Use Those Against You. He makes a point of crossing his arms and not meeting her eyes, doing his best to pull in his ecstatic vibrations of, “after six fucking thousand ridiculous bloody nonsensical years I’m marrying the love of my life and yes I’m downright thrilled.” 

She’s quick to give him a satisfied grin, which Crowley pretends not to notice for his own sanity. Aziraphale likes her, for some reason, so Crowley doesn’t want to terrorize her unless she really, really asks for it. “Thank you, Crowley. Now, onto the more important parts of this visit.” 

“Which are…?” 

“Well, the bachelors’ parties, of course.” 

“What? No,” Crowley says. “No, we’re not doing that.” 

Aziraphale says, “Oh! I hadn’t even thought of that - a bachelor’s party!” He sounds tickled pink. “How fun! What did you have in mind?” 

“No!” Crowley yelps. 

“I have something rather exciting planned for us, Aziraphale,” Anathema says, grin widening. “And Newt has graciously agreed to take you out for drinks and clubbing, Crowley. That seems more your style.” 

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale is clearly delighted, turning to look at Crowley, who is frantically trying to think of an objection that isn’t repeating “No!” over and over. “I suppose we’ll see you tomorrow then?” 

“Now wait just a second,” Crowley says, more desperately than he’d care for. “Why do we need a bachelor’s party? We’ve been bachelors for six millennia - Don’t exactly need to celebrate that, in my opinion.” He throws his arms up for emphasis. “That’s the whole reason we’re getting married! Because being a bachelor is stupid and we’re done with that nonsense now!” 

“Stop being difficult,” Aziraphale says, rolling his eyes but also smiling. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it.” 

“Am not!” 

“Then you’ll have no problem going out with Newt, while I have a good time with Anathema. Tomorrow, we’ll make sure the base is still ready for us, and we’ll have some grand new stories to chat about while we do so.” He leans forward and, after caressing his face for a moment, gives Crowley a gentle peck. 

While Crowley is savoring that bit of affection, Aziraphale nudges him out the door. Crowley doesn’t realize what’s happened until he’s seated in a tiny passenger seat of some hideous automobile, Newt’s buckling his seatbelt behind the wheel, and Aziraphale is yelling, “Have fun, darling!” 

“You - that won’t work forever!” Crowley yells back, flushing red. “You can’t just - just - dazzle me like that to do what you want!” 

Aziraphale gives him a warm, smug smile, and shuts the cottage door. 

“That bastard.” He slumps in his seat. “Fuck, I love him.” 

Newt, glancing at him sideways, says, “Believe me, we all know that.” 

**

Crowley finds out that after some fried food and half a dozen of drinks, Newt’s not so bad. 

He’s still twingy, but it’s almost endearing. It’s also pretty damn funny when he moves his hands fast and violently enough to knock over everything on their table. Crowley howls when, somehow, the napkin dispenser flies far enough to hit some guy in the back of the head. 

Newt has a strange mix of resigned acceptance and curiosity on his face when that happens. He calls out a, “Hey, sorry mate,” without really putting effort in, seemingly relieved when napkin head doesn’t hear him and confront him for the inadvertent bludgeoning. 

Whether he’s so used to being a disaster or he’s too drunk to care, he reaches back to the table behind them and takes their napkins when they aren’t looking to mop up the worst of the mess. Crowley would miracle it clean, but he’s too busy clutching his side and wheezing from the hilarity of it. 

Apparently, Anathema had chosen a place called “Cruisin’” for them to spend the night at. Upon pulling up to it and seeing neon lights flashing, Crowley said, “Yeah, not happening,” and Newt said, “Oh thank God,” and they found themselves a pub that has sticky floors the likes of which Crowley hasn’t seen or felt since that poorly thought-out orgy in Rome all those centuries ago. 

They picked a table towards the back of the room, though not so far back that they weren’t surrounded by the humans playing trivia. Crowley’s had a blast so far causing strife between the teams - three players from Team Tequila Mockingbird are in a blowout argument, while their fourth is texting answers to someone attractive on Whiskeypedia in hopes of going home with them. Team Un-Brewsual is having a passive aggressive debate on when the American constitution had been ratified, fueled by the fact that all of them had Googled the answer and received wildly different years. 

Newt had, helpfully, suggested that Crowley have the MC add a category regarding cat breeds. At Crowley’s questioning look, he stammered, “I-it’s not as if anyone actually knows any cat breeds. You can look at a dog and go ‘oh yes, that’s a retriever, and that’s a cocker spaniel, and that’s a chihuahua,’ but don’t think I’ve ever seen someone know what a cat is. They’re just cats.” He paused, took a sip of his vodka cranberry, and added, “Sometimes they’re ginger. Or black. But they’re just cats.” 

Crowley doesn’t know what the look on his face was when a woman on Smartinis threw a glass at the wall because she didn’t know that the cat from Kiki’s Delivery Service was most likely a Bombay. It must’ve been good, because Newt looked rather self-satisfied as he left to get them another round. 

It’s a handful of drinks later (keeping track is such a bore, after awhile), when Newt has apparently loosened up enough to ask, “So. So, I mean, you don’t seem like the type to have. Er. Feelings. But you’re getting married. Which is a mess of big feelings, from what I’ve heard. How’d that all - “ He waves a hand vaguely. “Y’know. How’d that go. Get going?” 

Crowley snorts. “What, haven’t you seen him? Don’t think you can be ‘round Aziraphale for longer than a few minutes without falling in love with him a bit. I was lost on him from day one.” 

There’s a lengthy pause while Newt finishes his drink, noisily rattling the ice around in his glass to suck up the last few drops. “Day one as in. The first day?” 

“Oh yes,” Crowley says. “Six fucking thousand bloody fucking long years I’ve loved that bastard. Don’t remember what it’s like not to love him anymore, you know.” 

“Aw.” 

“And he - he’s so stupid. He was so nervous when he proposed, like I wouldn’t have tied him down centuries ago. And to be perfectly, completely, clear, I mean tied down as in marriage and also in a sex way.” 

“Noted.” 

“Six fucking thousand long years and he proposes before we were dating a month. And he told me I went too fast!” He laughs, slapping Newt on the back heartily. It’s a little rougher than he intended and Newt jerks forward with a grunt. “Kinda hate him a bit for that. Kinda love him more for it. Gonna look so pretty at the altar, though.” 

“S’not in a church though. Does it still count as an altar on an airbase? Are you putting one there?” 

“I just mean marrying him’s going to be great. No - perfect. Absolutely perfect. In every way. Or else I’ll. I dunno. Die maybe.” 

“Sure it’ll be fine. After all - “ 

“Fine won’t cut it!” 

Crowley is startled to realize that he is, in fact, drunk. Not as wasted as he and Aziraphale got when they decided to help raise Warlock, but he’s past tipsy and is edging into sloshed. He had just slammed his hands on the table loud enough to attract a decent amount of attention and startle the fuck out of Newt, who’s staring at him with wide eyes. 

Because he’s drunk, though, he can’t stop himself from continuing. “Aziraphale deserves better than fine, he deserves - I dunno, the best things in the world! Kitten mews and soft blankets and really really old wine, and all of the first editions ever, and the best stars - not the ones I fucked around with, the really good ones God made Herself. Like the pink one! The really good pink one, you know which one I mean - “ 

Newt says, honestly, “I can assure you that I have no idea what you’re talking about or what’s going on now. I think I blacked out a bit there. God’s a woman?” 

“Look, listen - listen. Listen.” 

“Yes. Listening. Ears up. Or whatever.” 

“Aziraphale is pretty much perfect. Do you know how fucked up it is that he’s settling for me? I was a shitty angel who became a shittier demon who can’t grow some goddamned roses.” He waves a hand at himself. “You probably do, considering you’re with that witch and she’s considerably out of your league. No offense,” He adds. “You’re not half bad, but bike girl - “ 

“Oh no, that’s totally fair. I’m with you a million jillion percent.” He smiles dopily. “She’s wonderful. I would lick her shoes if she told me to.” 

“Aren’t you afraid that she’ll leave you? Find something better, smarter, nicer, better? Someone better who can grow things like. Cream roses?” 

Newt’s face twists in concentration. He wraps his hands around his empty glass, then one of his fingers twitch and it goes spiraling across the table. Crowley could catch it, but it’s a lot funnier to watch it fly off the table and shatter into millions of pieces. Newt’s face doesn’t change, but he does pick up the salt shaker to fiddle with instead. 

“See, here’s how I see it,” He finally says. “Anadema. Anathe. Ana. My love. She’s so beautiful, and smart, and I have no idea what she sees in me - I’m a loser. Always have been. And she’s not, because she’s beautiful and smart and wonderful. And because she’s all of that, if she loves me, there’s something in me that’s a little bit of all of that, I think, even if it’s just the part of me that loves her back.” 

Crowley tries to understand that, but it feels too large for him to process right now. He instead glares at his glass until it decides that no, it’s not really empty, and he proceeds to chug his drink. 

Newt continues, wistfully, “Or I guess it’s her business to decide if I’m worth it or not. If she’s into a loser, then it’s lucky that I am one. Or if she doesn’t think I’m one, then maybe I’m better than I thought.” 

“You’re sickening,” Crowley hisses. “What if she decides that she isn’t into a loser? What then?” 

He shrugs helplessly. “I don’t think she will. She loves me and I love her. I trust her not to randomly leave me for something silly. Plus, it’s - I mean, she’s still with me after talking me into doing that weird mind-reading soul-melding ritual we did since she thinks marriage is a sham, so can’t think of what would change her mind now. ‘S all fine. And I think you and your husband will be fine too.” 

“Not husbands yet. Maybe never if I fuck up the wedding.” Crowley buries his face in his arms. “What if the catering gets messed up and Aziraphale is unhappy? Or the arch we’re getting married under? Or the flowers - the fucking flowers, what if the roses aren’t cream - “ 

“Crowley, mate,” Newt says, kindly. “You’re being dramatic.” 

“I’m - !” He stares in outrage. “We’re leaving. We’re leaving immediately.” 

“Why are we doing that?” 

“Because I have to tell Aziraphale that you just called me dramatic so he can make you feel bad for LYING like a LIAR.” [6]

5Crowley had to ask for directions. Sign post must’ve blown over or something. [return to text]

6 When they get back to the cottage, Crowley has forgotten about this and instead spends the hour before he passes out on the couch telling Anathema and Aziraphale about how Newt would make a good demon if he could stand up straight. Newt spends the same amount of time reassuring Anathema that he wouldn’t become a demon unless she wanted him to. [return to text]


	5. in which There Are Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had time to convince them to be perfect. And really, he convinced Eve to go against God - flowers can’t be harder than that. 
> 
> He was blatantly ignoring the fact that it took him barely any time at all to tempt Eve, whereas he’s been threatening, begging, and bribing his flora for at least three months. There’s still time, he thought stubbornly, and he proceeded to not think about the flowers for a whole three seconds. 
> 
> Then he panicked again. Then he decided to procrastinate panicking until he and Aziraphale finished setting up the venue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i FINALLY have all of the chapters for this written!!! i've been writing this for a solid month at this point so this is super exciting for me. going to be posting the chapters as i edit them.
> 
> now this chapter though - i'm super excited for this chapter because this was the chapter that inspired the entire fic!!! i really really hope you all like it. 
> 
> so anyways: thank you for reading!!! hope everyone continues to enjoy this half as much as i enjoyed writing it!!! and keep an eye out - i signed up to participate in the good omens big bang and i've got IDEAS, friends. i'm very excited!!

In theory, the day before their wedding should be stressful but exciting. Last minute decorating would be taking place - getting the tables set up just right, making sure the catering knew where to drop off the food, check on their tuxedos to make sure they didn’t need ironing, and other menial tasks like that. 

They don’t even have to worry about any bridal party shenanigans - Aziraphale had said early on that he didn’t want to fuss with having to coordinating people when they were already organizing the event.[7]

And while it’s most certainly stressful, Crowley thinks he’s choose “heartstoppingly terrifying” moreso than excited. 

The tables are perfect, the centerpieces are beautiful (courtesy of Aziraphale’s input) and just large enough to make it inconvenient for everyone’s plates to coexist peacefully (Crowley’s own touch, of course), the silverware is gleaming, the name cards are crisp thanks to Aziraphale’s calligraphy skills, the strands of fairy lights are arranged just so, and most importantly, the wedding altar is stable, lusciously green, and perfect. 

It had taken Crowley months to collect the right fauna for it - to make it look as close to Eden as something not created by God could - and he had been biting his nails in the weeks leading up to the wedding, concerned that the sturdier plants in his garden would be swayed by the fickle, rude flowers he had still been trying to entice. They had known better, though, and had behaved beautifully. [8]

All of this is to say that the overall impression is that things are just dandy, and everything will be perfect as Crowley had planned. And for the most part, that’s true. 

Keyword being: Most. 

As in: not everything is well and perfect and ready for the wedding, and thus, Crowley is now frantically purchasing as much flour as his arms can carry in a last-ditch effort to save the entire mess. 

Of the things that aren’t well and perfect, the first is, unfortunately, the damn bouquet. He had half expected it when the roses had acquiesced to his sunny-window deal so easily. 

The roses, if an observer squinted, could be considered cream. If cream was a codeword for a very pale gray. The lilies settled on some kind of pale, blush pink that Crowley can tolerate since they’ll match Aziraphale’s skin tone. The baby’s breath is not as plentiful as he would’ve liked, but it will do.

It’s not what he wanted, and more importantly, it’s not perfect. He ended up spending an hour, early in the morning before Aziraphale awoke, grinding his teeth and pacing the length of his green room. He got on his knees to beg, at one point, desperate calls of, “Please, just do what you’re supposed to do! We had a deal, for fuck’s sake!” and “This is so important, do you not get how fucking important this is? Is now really the time to be going rogue?!” reverberating through his flat. 

They weren’t exactly swayed by his dramatics, but at that point, he still had over twenty-four hours until the ceremony. He had time to convince them to be perfect. And really, he convinced Eve to go against God - flowers can’t be harder than that. 

He was blatantly ignoring the fact that it took him barely any time at all to tempt Eve, whereas he’s been threatening, begging, and bribing his flora for at least three months. There’s still time, he thought stubbornly, and he proceeded to not think about the flowers for a whole three seconds. 

Then he panicked again. Then he decided to procrastinate panicking until he and Aziraphale finished setting up the venue. 

All of that being said, if the flowers were the only problem, Crowley thinks he could be rational about it. A ninety-nine is almost as good as a hundred - taking rounding into account, it’s basically a hundred itself. Plus, Aziraphale likes his garden for some reason. He gushes over all of his plants, no matter how ugly and horribly disobedient they are. There’s a high chance that Aziraphale would be thrilled if Crowley handed him a potted succulent to carry down the aisle. 

So the bouquet is a problem, but it’s not The Problem. 

At approximately five o’clock in the evening, at Tadfield with Aziraphale at his elbow, Crowley had been struggling with the twist-tie holding a bag of electric candles shut. Crowley handed candles over while Aziraphale fit them into the centerpieces - it was their last duty of the day before they would eagerly await the next day. 

They only had three more centerpieces to finish with when Aziraphale asked, with forced nonchalance, “I don’t suppose I could get a hint as to what flavor the cake tomorrow is going to be, could I?” 

Crowley froze. “The cake.” 

“Yes, well, it’s just that - I’ve been ever so curious,” Aziraphale babbled, fiddling with the Dowlings’ centerpiece to slot the candles into place. It was luck that he had been too engrossed in his task to notice Crowley’s slowly rising panic. “I didn’t want to pester you with questions - you’ve had so many ideas for the ceremony, and I’ve been delighted with what you’ve come up with. I didn’t want you to think I was doubting you when you’ve been doing such a wonderful job.” 

Crowley had a split second to get his face under control, because Aziraphale looked up then and with a sheepish grin, continued, “But you know how I am about surprises! I’m just dying to know what you picked. And if you didn’t go to Jean for the cake - well, they must be extremely talented!” 

“Er, yes,” He said, forcing himself to put the candles down before he crushed them in his slowly tightening grip. “Talented. Extremely so. Lovely cake, really.” 

“You’re not going to give me a hint, are you?” He pouted. Leaning forward, he pouted harder, in the way that Crowley could never resist. “Not even a little one?” 

“Nope,” Crowley said, voice uncomfortably high-pitched with stress. “Though I should go check on - baker. Yes. Make sure they know to. To. Drop the. Cake. The cake. Which I ordered. Make sure they know to drop it off here.” 

“I suppose I should get going as well,” Aziraphale said, looking at his watch. “According to Anathema, we’re not supposed to see each other the night before the wedding, and we’re rapidly approaching that time. I’ll finish up with the candles, you check with the baker, and, well - “ Here, he had flushed and bit his lip, which would’ve normally had Crowley melting. “I’ll see you at the altar tomorrow, my dear.” 

“Yes,” Crowley said faintly. “The baker. Um. See you tomorrow.” 

He had kept himself under control until he got to the Bentley and started the drive back to London. When he was certain that Aziraphale couldn’t possibly hear him, he let out a single breath. Then he inhaled. 

“I FORGOT ABOUT THE BLOODY CAKE?!” He shrieked, hands going to his hair and pulling at it frantically. “THE ONLY THING AZIRAPHALE WOULD REALLY CARE ABOUT?! HOW THE FUCK - WHAT THE FUCK - FUCKING FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK - “ 

This went on for the entire drive home. The Bentley, kindly, took over the whole steering and navigating bit during the course of his breakdown. 

Obviously, this was the beginning of The Problem. 

Part of him wishes he could just miracle this away like he does with every other problem he’s come across. He won’t miracle the flowers due to pride, but he could easily give up any semblance of dignity to ensure Aziraphale has the best wedding he possibly could. 

But he can’t miracle the cake. 

Sure, miracling wine is one thing - once they reach the point of miracling wine, it’s not like they’re looking for anything other than a fast and easy way to get trashed. Tea, too, generally isn’t horrible. 

Food though. That’s the kicker - the one thing he and Aziraphale love most about Earth [9] is also the one thing holy and occult powers fuck up pretty damn spectacularly. They’ve tried in the past when a craving here or there hit, and every time, the food is bland and tastes nothing like it’s supposed to. 

The last time they tried, they had been sitting together and Aziraphale wouldn’t stop moaning about how he would just die for some dates. Crowley had tried to whip up a bowl of them, but Aziraphale hadn’t even finished biting down on one before he spat it out, face scrunched in disgust. Crowley had wheezed his way into a cramp at the disgruntled look on the angel’s face. 

Considering how excited Aziraphale is for the cake, miracling it is absolutely unacceptable. Meaning Crowley has approximately eighteen hours to learn how to bake the best cake the world has ever seen. 

As the Bentley drives him home from the store, he Googles recipes and watches YouTube videos on cake decorating. “Almond cake with raspberry filling,” Crowley recites. “Butter, sugar, flour, egg whites to make it fluffier, whole milk - real raspberries for the filling. Small layer of chocolate underneath the filling. White and delicate blue icing for decoration. This is doable. Easy. No sweat. It’s a cake. Just cake. No problem. I’ve eaten plenty of cake. Did that whole stint of art with DaVinci, so decorating should be a cinch.” 

“Another One Bites The Dust” starts playing, almost apologetically. Crowley leans his head against the steering wheel and says, “No, you’re right. I’m fucked.” 

He tries, though. 

Fuck he tries. 

By the end of hour ten, his kitchen is a wasteland. Egg shells are scattered across the floor. There’s a smear of raspberry “jam” on the wall from where Crowley threw the latest attempt in a fit of rage. His counters are cracked and have various liquids dribbling off of the edges, forming tepid pools on the floor. His fridge door is swinging open, the light inside flickering on and off. And thanks to a wet, oily wrapper he had tossed on the ground after melting a stick of butter, Crowley’s wine rack is shattered due to him later slipping on said wrapper. 

Crowley’s arguably in worse shape than the kitchen. There’s batter crusted around his left wrist, and his right hand is somewhat glued to the wooden spoon he had been stirring with. He’s covered in flour from head-to-toe - and speaking of toes, his are uncomfortably snuggled in socks wet with spilled milk. His face is visibly bruised from his encounter with the wine rack and a bottle of Bordeaux that had been slightly out of place, providing a perfect spot for his left eye socket to go crashing into. He hadn’t been wearing his sunglasses - not after his third attempt burnt enough to set off the smoke alarm thanks to his failure in noticing how dark the cake had gotten in the oven. 

Perhaps the most pathetic part of this entire picture is the defeated, hopeless look on Crowley’s face. He’s seated with his knees curled up, arms wrapped around them and chin resting on top. He’s mumbling into his knees, trying to make sense of why everything had to fall apart at the last minute. 

“ - asked questions. Haven’t I been punished enough? Six thousand years. Six fucking thousand fucking years of suffering - of pain - of PINING, for fuck’s sake. And now this?” He tilts his head up to the ceiling, closing his eyes. “Punishing me is one thing, you know. Punishing Aziraphale? He doesn’t deserve this - he deserves the perfect wedding. With a beautiful, delicious cake, and flowers that behave and are the colors they should be, and a fiance who doesn’t fuck everything up.” 

“Oh now really. Whatever has gotten into you, my dear?” 

7 “If I was going to pick someone, it’d be you,” He had said, blushing. “Obviously, you can’t be part of the bridal party and also the groom, so. Besides, I don’t much see the point in having anyone else standing there with us while we say our vows. I wouldn’t let us share the stage with the officiant if the ceremony didn’t require a third party.” 

Crowley had no complaints on that front. Less chances for other people to fuck things up, in his opinion. [return to text]

8For the first time since he had brought a plant home, he had gone so far as to praise the lot of them while he was collecting clippings for the arch he and Aziraphale would be standing under. He tried to take a page out of Aziraphale’s book to say something friendly, but it sounded strange. He ended up saying, “Well. Could've been worse.” 

The newly pruned greenery, for the first time in Crowley’s proximity, had straightened with pride. [return to text]

9Yes, Crowley fully believes that both he and Aziraphale would likely choose food over humanity. Humans are a spot of alright, but food - food’s been, if not the foundation for their love, then at least a very persistent side character. Most of their meetings were in restaurants, or over a glass of wine, and it wasn’t a coincidence that Crowley had brought up sushi and pastries when convincing Aziraphale to help him try to save the world. [return to text]


	6. in which crowley finally takes a chill pill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley stares at him. “Because! Because this is - this is a big deal, Aziraphale!” He says, pulling away so he can throw his arms around for emphasis. “It should be perfect - you deserve to have a perfect wedding! And I’ve botched up the most important parts of it!” 
> 
> “The most important parts of the wedding are standing in this room right now - one of them is very tired, and the other is also very tired but happens to be covered in flour as well,” Aziraphale says dryly. “I think everything else is rather optional.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's super sick b/c she decided to eat hotdogs at a BBQ after not having meat for two months!!! it's me, ya girl. happy sunday! 
> 
> thank you for all of your kind words and kudoses and bookmarks and etc.! hope you enjoy this chapter as well - this is probs one of my favorites tbh

Crowley immediately yelps and rockets to his feet. Frantically trying to shoo Aziraphale out the door with one hand while the other covers his eyes, he shrieks, “We’re not supposed to see each other before the wedding! It’s bad luck!” 

Aziraphale doesn’t budge. With the tone of voice that heavily implies he’s also rolling his eyes, he says, “Crowley, that’s a silly human tradition, and it obviously isn’t as important to me as making sure you’re alright. Please stop pushing me.” 

Crowley does not stop pushing. “What are you even doing here? Shouldn’t you be getting your nails done with Anathema and Adam?” 

“We finished that hours ago. I only stopped over because you weren’t answering your phone - I wanted to make sure we said good night.” Aziraphale finally grabs Crowley’s hands to stop his shoving. 

Crowley pauses in his franticity. “You came over to say good night?” 

Aziraphale sticks his nose in the air, huffing indignantly. “Well! Honestly, it’s your own fault for getting me used to sleeping next to you. I was tossing and turning for ages, so I thought - well, if we talked, it might’ve put me more at ease.” 

“You’re unbearably cute and it makes me sick. You know that, right?” 

“Hush you. We’re meant to be talking about why you’re having a meltdown in a puddle of butter at four in the morning.” 

“S’not butter. It’s - “ He bends down to swipe a finger through it, tastes it, and makes a face. “Cake attempt number six, if I remember right.” 

Aziraphale’s face visibly softens. “You forgot about the cake.” 

“I did not!” Crowley objects immediately. “I perhaps temporarily misplaced the knowledge that weddings require cakes. And the knowledge that I had promised to procure said cake.” 

“My darling demon,” Aziraphale croons, stepping forward and hugging him. Crowley melts into the embrace, tension he had been holding for hours releasing at once. “You forgot about the cake and you tried to bake it yourself.” 

He sighs into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Yeah. I fucked up.” 

“Nonsense!” Aziraphale says, waving a hand lightly before placing it in Crowley’s hair. “I think a homemade cake will be lovely.” 

“Except we won’t have a cake because I fucked it up.” He grips the back of Aziraphale’s coat tightly. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I ruined everything.” 

“It’s a cake, Crowley. It’s hardly the end of the world.” He chuckles like he always does when he says that anymore. 

“It’s the cake and the flowers, though!” Crowley blurts out, burying his face further into Aziraphale’s shoulder. He shuts his eyes tightly and pretends they’re not prickling with tears. “I fucked up the flowers too, they’re horrible and they’re not what you wanted at all - “ 

“I love all of your plants - I’d walk down the aisle with one of your monsteras if I wasn’t afraid of tripping over it, you know.” 

“But - “ Crowley’s voice fails him. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this wretched before in his life. 

Part of him, still, had hoped he could pull this together. An underdog moment - thirty seconds on the clock, pulling out a heartstopping, perfect cake while Aziraphale gasps with awe from the sidelines. And then, when Aziraphale couldn’t possibly be more dazzled - WAM. Crowley pulls out a beautiful, cream and blue bouquet. It matches Aziraphale’s signature colors perfectly. Aziraphale smells them and decides he can’t live without Crowley. 

Or something like that, anyway. 

Obviously, that was a pipe dream. He wonders if this is how bugs feel when they get stepped on. 

Aziraphale, ignorant to the thoughts racing through Crowley’s head, pulls away enough to tilt Crowley’s head up. He waits until Crowley looks up and then he asks, softly, “Why are you so upset about this?” 

Crowley stares at him. “Because! Because this is - this is a big deal, Aziraphale!” He says, pulling away so he can throw his arms around for emphasis. “It should be perfect - you deserve to have a perfect wedding! And I’ve botched up the most important parts of it!” 

“The most important parts of the wedding are standing in this room right now - one of them is very tired, and the other is also very tired but happens to be covered in flour as well,” Aziraphale says dryly. “I think everything else is rather optional.” 

Crowley opens his mouth to object further - that he wants Aziraphale to have the perfect wedding, that this is the first time in six thousand years they’ve done something for the two of them, that this is the only time they’ve done something so extravagant that wasn’t a by-product of some human affair like a war or scandal or whatever else - and Aziraphale places a hand over his mouth. He stares at him with as much offense and indignation as he can muster up. 

Aziraphale asks, “What would you do if I told you that I had completely botched our tuxedos, dear? If I accidentally ordered white tuxes and proceeded to spilled rainbow dye on them, and we could either walk down the aisle in that or in our undergarments?” 

“I’d laugh - “ 

“Obviously.” 

“But that’s not - we can wear whatever, it’s not like that’s going to make much of a diff - “ Crowley pauses. “Difference. Ah. I see.” 

“I won’t change my mind just because we don’t have a cake, or because the flowers aren’t exactly what you wanted them to be,” Aziraphale says kindly. He takes Crowley’s hands in his own and kisses them lightly. “In fact, I can’t think of anything that could. The wedding will be perfect because you and I will be there together, and if I gave the impression that I gave a damn about anything regarding this affair other than your presence, I’m terribly sorry. I had no idea you were so stressed.” 

“It’s not your fault. I might’ve gotten a little caught up in everything. Gotten a little, ah. Nervous.” He lets his head rest against Aziraphale’s shoulder again. 

“Nervous?” 

“It’s not every day everything I’ve ever wanted falls into my lap so enthusiastically. You’ve been so excited,” Crowley says, a little more awed than he’d care to admit. “I just wanted to make sure you stayed that happy. I wanted to make you that happy.” 

Aziraphale looks at him, visibly confused. “Why do you think I’ve been so happy recently? Crowley, it’s not about the wedding - I’m thrilled that we can finally be together openly. That I don’t have to protect you anymore by repressing how much I love you. I mean, of course the wedding - “ He waves a hand vaguely, then lets go of Crowley to wave both of them around. “I’m excited for the wedding as well, I’m excited that I’ll get to call you my husband tomorrow and my wife most likely in a few weeks and my spouse once in a blue moon. But I’m - “ 

Crowley watches in fascination as Aziraphale waves his hands faster, smile widening. “I’m downright giddy to be able to hold your hand and be near you, and that you want the same. Everything else is a perk, but after centuries - after six thousand years, I can finally say that I love you to anyone who will sit still long enough and everyone who doesn’t! And you say it too! Crowley, it’s just - it’s amazing!” 

He rocks on his heels, beaming and joyous and Crowley thinks, suddenly, “He loves me.” 

Independent of Crowley’s own feelings, Aziraphale loves him. He’s seen Crowley at his highs and lows, and Aziraphale chose to propose. He just admitted that he’s loved Crowley for so long and was repressing it in an attempt to protect Crowley - that’s how much Aziraphale loves him. 

It feels like something clicks into place, finally, and the anxiety that had seemed to overwhelming for so long disappears like a wave on the shore. Crowley’s shoulders loosen, and he feels his face relax into a small smile. “You’ve gone and made me all soft, you know. I used to be a fearsome demon.” 

Aziraphale leans forward to land a peck on the tip of his nose. “You’re still quite fearsome, my dear,” He says lovingly. “Now, I believe we have a cake to bake. Shall we?”


	7. in which the wedding finally happens but of course there has to be SOME drama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you get two chapters in a day because i forgot i'm leaving for vacation on thursday and i want to have this all up and posted before then!!! yay you ;) 
> 
> and here we get to the MEAT of the story (i know i bet you thought we were already past that with crowley freaking out and being calmed down... 'fraid not) 
> 
> thank you as always for the kind words!!! you're all so sweet and i'm glad everyone's been enjoying this self-indulgent fic of mine~

The airbase - miraculously emptied of any soldiers or government officials after the attempted Apocalypse - cleans up well. It’s a perfectly open area with plenty of room for both the ceremony and the reception, and thanks to his and Aziraphale’s work yesterday, it’s up to snuff decoration-wise as well. The wedding altar, the aisle leading up to it, and the seating look even better from an aerial view. Crowley lets himself look out with satisfaction, cake pan in hand, canvas bag over one shoulder, and other hand occupied with clutching Aziraphale’s. 

Their guests are milling around - it’s a wonderfully small gathering, such that even with everyone wandering between conversations and with children running about, there’s plenty of room for him and Aziraphale to land without being noticed. 

Anathema and Newt appear to be occupying the children, partaking in whatever bit of play-pretend the Them have concocted. Crowley’s relieved to see that they’ve welcomed tiny Warlock into their group - they’re a little shit in the best ways, but that does make it hard for their ex-charge to make friends. Unsurprisingly, they and Adam appear to have hit it off. Adam loves his friends enough to save the world for them, but Crowley thinks he’ll do well with someone who will give him a run for his money in the control-freak department, maybe someone who will give him a bit of a rivalry. 

The Dowlings are there as well, and thankfully without bodyguards. It took much less convincing for them to attend sans over-the-top protection than Crowley had originally expected, considering how important they believe themselves to be [10]. Thus, bodyguard-less and therefore excuse-less, they’ve been backed into a conversation with Shadwell and Madame Tracy. 

If Crowley listens closely, he can hear Shadwell saying, “ - Now see ‘ere, a name like Warlock - rubbish. Shoulda picked somethin’ proper. Name like that’ll let the devil in, and y’know what shows up with the devil? Witches, boy! Witches!” 

Madame Tracy says, “Oh, but remember Anathema, dear? We quite like her, and she’s very new-age-y!” 

Thaddeus, ignoring the ensuing argument, mutters out of the corner of his mouth, “You know, we wouldn’t be stuck in this conversation if you had stuck to our original plan - “ 

“Our original plan was stupid, dear,” Harriet hisses back, pleasant smile firmly in place. “The world has never needed another Thaddeus. What a stupid name.” 

They heard this argument at least a dozen times a month for eleven years, and Crowley has never stopped finding it utterly hilarious. Aziraphale makes a noise next to him like he can’t decide if he’s annoyed by it or if it’s a strangely endearing reminder of their domesticity while raising young Warlock. 

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley says, squeezing his hand. “Guess we should make our appearance. Put the cake down before I drop it.” He pauses and says, faux-casually, “Get married, finally.” 

“Oh yes!” Aziraphale, already bright and happy, somehow manages to brighten up further. He pulls his wings in, and Crowley does the same, and they start the trek over to the guests. 

Adam, buried underneath a pile of limbs and playmates, somehow notices them first. “Finally!” He yells exasperatedly. He spits out a bit of what appears to be Newt’s hair [11] and tries to get out from the pile. “Took you two long enough!” 

“Yeah! Took you long enough!” Brian chimes in, half on top of Adam and still trying to get him into some sort of chokehold, by the looks of it. Despite the airbase being completely concrete, he somehow has dirt smudged under his left eye. 

“You’re late for your own party, you know,” Wensleydale says, matter-of-factly. He’s standing over the wrestling match, dodging flailing limbs with the ease that comes from years of being the least rowdy of the group. “My parents would call you rude for that.” 

“And we got through three rounds of MI6 interrogations - if you had waited a little longer, I could’ve broke ‘em,” Pepper says, still in-character. She points at “They woulda spilled it all! I was about to bring out the nail screws!” 

“Nanny!” Warlock, at odds with the Them’s teasing and conversational tone, screams while trying to roll out from the pile of wriggling children. They manage after a few graceless elbow jabs and sprint forward to fling themself around Crowley’s waist. Crowley has to let go of Aziraphale to steady them, clumsily wrapping an arm around them. 

Purely for making sure the brat doesn’t fall over. Certainly not to reciprocate or anything. 

“I can’t believe you’re marrying Brother Francis,” They stage-whisper with exaggerated disgust, grinning at Aziraphale widely. Aziraphale gives him a fond but wry look in response. “Is he going to make you let all the slugs inside when its cold? Have them crawl alllllll over you?” 

“He may let one slug in,” Crowley says in his poshest tone, petting Warlock’s hair lightly. “It’s my wedding gift to him. One slug, and perhaps a squirrel or two.” 

“How kind of you,” Aziraphale says dryly. “Hello, Warlock.” 

“Hi Brother,” They say cheekily, still hugging Crowley. “You better treat Nanny right - better than all of the slugs in the garden.” [12]

Aziraphale leans forward and, conspiratorially, says, “Between you and me, dearest - I may love all of God’s creations, but I love your Nanny a smidge more than all of them combined.” He winks at Warlock’s cackle. “It won’t be a hardship for me to prioritize.” 

“You’re a sap,” Crowley says, pretending he’s not blushing furiously. “And we only paid the officiant for two hours, so we should be getting this show on the road, shouldn’t we?” 

Anathema, always prepared and even more frequently in charge, stands up from where she had been grappling with Brian, and she lets out a loud, piercing whistle. “To your seats!” She calls loudly, pointing to the wedding arch. “This is a ceremony six millennia in the making - millennia, folks! Come on now! Oh Newt, honey, your hair’s a wreck - “ She fusses over him as she helps him to his feet and drags him to their own seats. 

Warlock kicks up a fuss when the Dowlings won’t let them sit with their new friends. Harriet, shoving her purse under her seat, snaps, “Just let him sit where he wants, Thad, who cares?” 

Madame Tracy makes to sit in Shadwell’s lap, which Shadwell allows after a fair amount of blustering. Anathema eyes Newt speculatively at that, but she appears content with sitting beside him and holding his hand. 

The Them shove each other and push for the seats closest to the front, and Pepper emerges victorious. She graciously allows Brian to sit next to her after he wipes his hands off on the back of Thaddeus’s coat. 

During this, Crowley carefully places the cake at the head table he and Aziraphale will be seated at. He makes sure that it won’t be disturbed or is anywhere near an edge, and then he walks to the end of the aisle where Aziraphale is standing and adjusting his cuffs. 

The sap that he is, he found matching cufflinks for both of them - small, silver snakes curled around a pearl. Crowley sees a glimpse of them while Aziraphale fiddles with straightening himself out, and for some reason, that causes tears to spring to his eyes. 

He takes off his sunglasses and swipes at them hurriedly, letting himself take in how beautiful his fiance looks. Their tuxes are gray - Crowley’s is a charcoal, almost ash color, but Aziraphale is resplendent in his lighter gray. Their bow ties match [13], a shiny silver that clashes horribly with Crowley’s eyes but makes Aziraphale’s pop. 

The only thing that’s missing is in the canvas bag Crowley has been clutching for the better part of an hour. 

He places it on the ground and bends over to pull out the bouquet he had finished making while Aziraphale iced the cake. The majority of the bouquet is the roses, which are an eggshell white. They’re interspersed with various greenery and a touch of baby’s breath. The only real pop of color are the lilies, which decided they wanted to be a pale, blush pink instead of anything else Crowley had planned. They stand out against the white and green, and the overall effect is a soft, special warmth. 

It kills him to admit it, especially after how stressed he had been up until a few scarce hours earlier, but the bouquet turned out great. Maybe a smidge better than the blue and cream one he had been planning when taking into account the colors Aziraphale decided on for their outfits. 

He pokes Aziraphale lightly to get his attention, then thrusts the bouquet forward. He says, “Here. For you. My garden had an almost year-long coup to give you that specific bouquet, you know.” 

Aziraphale gasps and takes it - their fingers brush as he does so, and despite them having done much more than hold hands at this point, Crowley feels a shiver run down his spine. “It’s lovely! Oh, Crowley - “ 

“Think it’s about time we get started,” Crowley says quickly, holding out an arm. At the same time, music starts playing [14]and their guests stop chattering. 

Aziraphale loops his arm through Crowley’s, cradling the bouquet in his other arm. He says, ever-so-lovingly, “Shall we?” 

Crowley croaks out, “Yeah, let’s go.” 

They don’t have compatible stride lengths at all. Crowley feels like he’s mimicking a centipede with the tiny steps he’s taking, while Aziraphale is clearly trying and struggling to keep up. Their elbows keep bumping, they’re not on beat with the music, and at one point Aziraphale nearly trips and Crowley has to haul him back to avoid a faceplant. 

Staring at Aziraphale’s red face as he helps him get back into their rhythm, Crowley realizes that he wouldn’t change a thing. Not with the wedding, or with how they got to this point. 

He doesn’t bother paying attention to the officiant when they finally stand in front of their friends. He can’t bring himself to let Aziraphale go entirely - as Aziraphale unloops his arm, Crowley lets his twist so he can take Aziraphale’s hand. 

The officiant babbles on about something, but Crowley doesn’t much care. He’s not going to say anything that’s more interesting than the way Aziraphale’s thumb is stroking the back of his hand, or the way Aziraphale is beaming at him. 

He only tunes back in when Aziraphale starts talking - saying his vows. Crowley belatedly realizes he is horrifically unprepared for this. 

“My love,” Aziraphale says tenderly. Crowley is already lost. “I’m sure I could spend the entire day telling you how wonderful I think you are - how utterly bewitched I am by just about everything you do. I could recite poetry and verses from the best writers the world has seen until the moon rises and I daresay it still wouldn’t be enough for me to express how madly and completely in love with you I am. 

“I know it took me a long time to match your pace,” He says wryly, eyes darting down to the side. “I’m not proud of how cowardly I’ve been. I’m dreadfully sorry for it, my love.” 

Crowley simultaneously wants to remember every word that Aziraphale is saying and can’t think past the words “my love” that have scrambled his brains. He makes some kind of noise, and Aziraphale’s face softens. [15]

“I vow to cherish you from here on out - openly and proudly. Any hardship we may face, we will face together. I will always stand by you above all else and support you in all you do.” He smiles a little shyly, ducking his head. “I love you, Crowley.” 

“Ng - That’s, I mean - Uh.” 

There’s a long moment of silence as Crowley tries to force his tongue to work. But there’s a lump in his throat and to his absolute horror, he thinks his eyes are watering. 

“Dear - “ 

“No, shut up, I just - I need a minute!” He squeaks, scrubbing underneath his glasses with his free hand. “Six thousand years I’ve been dying to hear that, okay, it takes a bit of getting used to!” 

Their guests laugh, and even the grumpy officiant looks charmed. Crowley is too busy trying to pull himself together enough to say his own vows, which means he can’t stand to look at Aziraphale while he tries to force himself to stop crying. 

Happy crying. What a stupid human invention. He’ll have to bitch at God later for making human bodies so ridiculous. 

He finally has to look away from Aziraphale, because the soft, loving look keeps making him forget what he wants to say himself. He clears his throat and shuffles around and forces himself not to peek up at his soon-to-be-husband. 

This means he’s rather startled when Aziraphale suddenly yells, “NO! CROWLEY!” and in the next breath, something liquid and smelly is dumped over his head. 

Someone shrieks, and Crowley thinks, “Well that’s just not on.” 

10 The Dowlings had never forgotten the numerous times Brother Francis had, almost absentmindedly, prevented both them and their son from mortal peril. No malicious actors had ever made it past the garden thanks to Brother Francis and his shears. 

Aziraphale had merely assumed that, as it is with the men in suits that came to his bookshop every couple of months with pitiful threats and harsh words, it was easier to deal with the fuss himself than get authorities involved. He always sent them on their way with strict orders never to return, and the Dowling family was safer and more comfortable because of it. [return to text]

11Newt had recently taken to growing his hair out - half because he thinks it would look cool, and half because Anathema said she quite likes the way he melts when she runs her hands through it. It’s just long enough to hold a braid or two, and Anathema rather enjoys pretty-ing him up before they go to Sunday brunch. [return to text]

12A particularly nosy reader may be wondering why Warlock is, without question, acting like these two man-shaped beings who look nothing like Nanny Ashtoreth or Brother Francis are, in fact, their beloved carers. The answer may be divulged at a later date with, perhaps, a sequel. Or maybe it won’t. There is a reason, though. [return to text]

13Crowley wasn’t planning on wearing a bow tie, and Aziraphale hadn’t expected him to. Obviously, it doesn’t really fit with Crowley’s aesthetic. 

It’s unclear why, when getting dressed, he felt the need to include one anyway. He wasn’t unhappy with how excited Aziraphale was to tie it for him, though. [return to text]

14Startling the DJ, who definitively had not been involved with starting the music and, in fact, wasn’t aware that music was going to be played during the ceremony at all. He’s not even sure where the music came from, considering the fact that he hadn’t plugged his speakers in yet. [return to text]

15Aziraphale had a much longer speech planned - seeing the way that Crowley’s lip was trembling, he made a decision to cut about three-quarters of it out. His demon looked about to combust, and Aziraphale wouldn’t dream of embarrassing the poor dear. 

He’ll end up saving the rest for future anniversaries, and every time Crowley will become a sobbing mess. It becomes one of their anniversary traditions, though Crowley would never admit it. [return to text]


	8. in which heaven and hell try the same damn thing and are shocked when it doesn't work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale raises a hand, and he does the same flourish he uses when he pulls the same magic trick for the millionth time. It’s some sort of fiddly thing where he picks up the schilling Crowley knows he keeps in his upper left coat pocket, and then he releases each finger one by one while blowing out a long breath. His palm is then revealed to be empty, and he makes an, “Oooooh! See!” kind of face. 
> 
> It’s the same thing, except there’s no schilling, and on the exhale, he breathes hellfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the cliffhanger folks - i didn't think so many people would be upset!! i promise all ends well, and i posted as quickly as possible to prove it ;) 
> 
> after this chapter, it's a few more that are for explanation and closure, but we're heading towards the end, folks. i really appreciate you all joining me on this journey and i hope you all continue enjoying~ 
> 
> thank you! you all make my day a ton brighter~

Crowley, dripping wet and furious, whips his sunglasses off. He tosses them aside, spins around, and snarls, “Who the FUCK is fucking up MY WEDDING?” 

He almost can’t see through the rage that’s smothering him. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but getting a bucket of water dumped on him while he was standing at the altar is, shockingly enough, not something Crowley had dreamed of when he imagined their wedding. Even in his most anxious moments, he hadn't imagined this possibility.

Aziraphale mutters something to himself that may be, “Thank you, thank you,” but Crowley’s seeing red and is fairly certain if there was ever a time to go postal, now would be it. 

Staring at him with wide, horrified eyes, is a veritable platoon of angels and demons. One of them is Gabriel, who’s clutching a large bucket in his hands. He has the other middle-management angels with him - Uriel, Michael, and Sandalphon.

A solid twenty or thirty feet behind him, Beelzebub is loudly buzzing in a way she only does when extremely stressed[16] and a few other demons are shuffling further backwards. Hastur, Ligur [17], and Dagon bracket Beelzebub like a poor imitation of a gang. 

Crowley doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, but he can get the gist of it from a glance. He snaps his fingers and pauses reality for the mortals - less because he thinks they shouldn’t know what’s happening, and more because the angels and demons won’t think to bother them if they’re not drawing attention to themselves. 

Which he’s not doing out of kindness or any such lark. It’s just more convenient and expedient to make sure this encounter has as few people mucking up the conversation as possible. 

Shut up. 

“Haven’t we been here before?” He asks, loud and bitter and pissed. “You, with the holy water. Me, with the not dying. Thought we had handled this already!” 

“We know you switched places,” Michael, of all people, says. Despite being the highest ranking angel after Metatron, she tends to keep to herself. She prefers to let others do the talking, from what Crowley can remember, but she’s always been the first to jump into a fight. As always, she’s the picture of a composed celestial being, but Crowley can see the way her hands are twitching towards where her scabbard must be. “A demon can’t survive holy water. An angel can’t survive hellfire. Aziraphale took your place, and you took his. You played us for fools.” 

“Clearly, with your fraternization, exchanging vessels is far less - ” Gabriel’s face twists. “Intimate than whatever atrocities you two have been engaging in. It’s our own fault for not looking closely enough, but we won’t make that mistake again. Your respective executions still stand.” 

Crowley holds up his arms, letting water drip to the ground, and raises an eyebrow. “Well, see. Clearly I’ve survived again. So that theory of yours isn’t really holding up, now is it? Do you really think you can pull off a proper execution without the only weapons that can kill us?” 

“Unless you both switched again!” Ligur yells from his spot beside Hastur. “How do we know you’re not still that guy?” 

“Oh, that’s easy enough to remedy!” Aziraphale says brightly. He steps forward and wraps his arms around Crowley, who’s still sopping wet. He lays a loud, smacking kiss on Crowley’s cheek, and he steps away just enough to make it clear that his light grey suit has been dampened by holy water. “See? Both of us are soaked. Holy water is little more than an irritation at this point.” 

A murmur goes through the crowd. 

“I think it’s time that everyone went their separate ways,” Aziraphale says, faux-lightly. “Perhaps permanently, if you’re going to insist on being unpleasant company.” 

Gabriel has the nerve to look offended. “Unpleasant - ?” 

Aziraphale stares at him, incredulous. “You just tried to murder my groom! I think that counts as unpleasant!” 

“Enough.” For the first time since they arrived, Beelzebub steps forward. Still far enough away that if Crowley were to shake like a dog, he wouldn’t hit her with water, but close enough to have a presence. “Clearly this is a fruitless effort. Whatever trick they’re doing is still in effect, and Crowley, at least, has already proven that he can and will use this trick against anyone we send after them.” 

Part of Crowley almost feels bad when he sees how Hastur suddenly grabs Ligur’s arm and tugs him further away from him and Aziraphale. Their not-friendship (since normal demons don’t have friends) has always been rather sweet, if Crowley’s being honest. Then he remembers how horrible they are, and the guilt dissipates almost immediately. 

“Shouldn’t we try the hellfire again?” Sandalphon asks, turning to Beelzebub. “Just to be thorough?” 

Crowley snarls wordlessly, hackles rising. Aziraphale quickly takes his hand and squeezes it - an attempt at reassurance, maybe. Which is sweet and all, but Crowley would rather die a thousand deaths than watch Aziraphale face down hellfire. 

He still thinks about that day in Heaven and the way Gabriel looked at Aziraphale, then. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop thinking about it. 

But Aziraphale looks strangely unfazed, and he tilts his chin up before saying, “I’m getting rather irritated by this hullabaloo. Leave now or I’ll make you.” 

Oh. 

That’s. 

That’s a voice Crowley hasn’t heard in millennia. That’s a dark, threatening voice. That’s a voice of an angel who knows not only how to defeat you but how to make you accept it. 

It’s also a voice that unironically says “hullabaloo,” which is more attractive than it has a right to be.

He shivers. Wonders if Aziraphale would pull that voice out during the honeymoon if he asked for it nicely. 

Sandalphon, blind to the danger right in front of him, scoffs. “Make us?” 

Aziraphale raises a hand, and he does the same flourish he uses when he pulls the same magic trick for the millionth time. It’s some sort of fiddly thing where he picks up the schilling Crowley knows he keeps in his upper left coat pocket, and then he releases each finger one by one while blowing out a long breath. His palm is then revealed to be empty, and he makes an, “Oooooh! See!” kind of face. 

It’s the same thing, except there’s no schilling, and on the exhale, he breathes hellfire. 

Crowley startles at the incredibly hot flames, but not so badly as the angels do. Gabriel shrieks while Michael drags him back, and the other two hurriedly backpedal. 

Aziraphale releases it with a cheery laugh, as if the entire squadron of their enemies isn’t staring at them in terror. The only one unaffected is Beelzebub, whose blank-faced stare doesn’t leave either of them. There’s wariness there, but no blind terror. 

“Now that it's eminently clear that we have our Mother's blessing - I’d really like to finish marrying my fiance now. Unless any of you are here for the reception, then I suggest you skedaddle.” 

Only Aziraphale could say things like “hullabaloo” and “skedaddle” while threatening people significantly more powerful than he is. And this is the creature Crowley is choosing to marry. 

He wouldn’t have it any other way, of course, but still. Makes him feel a little silly, if he’s being honest. 

Uriel - clearly the only angel with any sense - manages to grab the other three angels’ collars before they can react past heart-stopping terror. She says, with a clearly forced almost-smile, “Of course, Aziraphale. Congratulations on your - “ Her face twitches oddly. “Semi-holy matrimony.” 

“Oh I quite like that,” Crowley says. “Semi-holy matrimony. We should’ve had that on the invites.” 

The angels disappear. At a look from Beelzebub, Dagon silently links arms with Hastur and Ligur and drags them back down to Hell with a single move. [18]

Beelzebub steps forward with her hands linked behind her back. She says, “I don’t have any time or patience left to wazzzte on this matter any longer. I know these have been trickzzz. The angels may believe that thizzz izz God’s will, but I know better." She pauses. "That being szzaid - I don’t care how it happened, and I don’t care what you two do as long as you szztay out of my way.” 

“Gladly,” Crowley responds. “With great pleasure.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Szzo dramatic. Principality, you sure you want to be szzztuck with him for eternity?” 

Aziraphale gives her an affronted look. “Of course I am! Until the end of the world and then some, I daresay.” 

She makes a face that on anyone else Crowley would call a smile. He squints at her. “Oi,” he says slowly. “Why’re you acting like you approve?” 

She shrugs carelessly. “Did you know humanzz have this thing called ‘paid time off’? As in, you get to have time where you’re not working and you aren’t penalizzzzzed for it?” 

“Yeah, reckon I’ve heard of it.” 

“Do you know the laszzt time I had a break?” She doesn't wait for an answer before snapping, “Never. The answer was never. How often have you had breakzzz, Crowley?” 

Despite no longer reporting to Hell, Crowley would prefer not to admit that he thinks his default state has been “not working” for approximately six millennia. He says, “Frequently enough.” 

“Correct. Do you know what poszzzition is up for grabzzz now that you’re getting hitched?” 

“Ahh. I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to do the whole ‘human temptation’ thing.” 

“I’m not stupid, Crowley - your job izz the demonic equivalent of permanent PTO. It’d be a demotion, yes, but it’ll look real sacrificing and noble of me to ‘take one for the team’, and Hastur izzz just stupid enough to think a promotion is a good thing,” She says, and now she’s actually grinning. There are more teeth than Crowley would’ve expected from someone whose avatar is a creature traditionally without teeth. “I already know what my first assignment will be - mayhem in Hawaii. With daiquiriezzzzz. Might even drag Dagon with me.”

Aziraphale says, “Oh, that’s wonderful! If you have the time, there’s a bakery there that does absolutely sinful things with macadamia nuts - Crowley, we should go to Hawaii soon.” 

Beelzebub blinks. She eyes Aziraphale strangely for a moment before suddenly barking out a laugh. “I can see why you like this one, Crowley. Now put all that newfound goodness to use - szztay the fuck away and don’t fuck this up for me.” 

She disappears, but not before a black envelope appears on their gift table - the writing on the front, in red ink, says, “To Mx. and Mx. Crowley.” 

Crowley’s hold on reality breaks with Beelzebub’s departure, and it’s the work of a moment to erase the memory of the surprise holy water shower from the humans’ memories. Easier than explaining everything, in his opinion. 

That does mean, though, that he’s no more prepared for his own vows when the officiant says, “And you, Anthony?” 

16The last time Beelzebub had buzzed that loudly was when they needed a specific report for a budget meeting, and some lower-level nobody had spilled their coffee in the file cabinet Dagon had spent a century organizing and putting to rights. [return to text]

17Ligur had been miraculously brought back to life when Adam reset the world, but Adam hadn’t been quite sure how to go about putting him back where he belongs. He ended up wandering the streets of Los Angeles for a few weeks until Hastur had stumbled upon him and dragged him back to Hell. 

Ligur, who had been enjoying a soft pretzel when Hastur had gracelessly grabbed his ankles and tugged him Downwards, had been ambivalent about returning to work. [return to text]

18The Lord of the Files has always been the picture of efficiency, and rumor has it that Heaven’s organizational structure has never been the same since she fell.[return to text]


	9. in which they live happily ever after but there are still some loose ends to be tied up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They part, reluctantly, and Crowley licks his lips. He asks, “Why do you taste like gasoline? Not that I don’t like it! Just kinda odd.” 
> 
> Aziraphale, still a little weepy and also dazed by their kiss, says, “Uh. New toothpaste?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so turns out i can't count and after this chapter there's actually 2 more!! i only counted it like. a million times. 
> 
> as always, thank you for the kind words and kudos <3 you all make this so much fun! i hope you all enjoy the rest of their wedding~

Considering that they just had a rather large distraction from the ceremony, Crowley thinks he can be forgiven for going, “Fuck, I love you,” and pulling Aziraphale in for the tightest hug he can manage. He’s part-snake, so he can constrict and tighten very well. 

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind. He clutches back as tightly and whispers, “Thank you for going along with it. Thank you, my dear, I’m sorry - I didn’t think - “ 

“Hush. Stop worrying, it’s all fine. We’ll talk about it later.” He squeezes for another second and says, brightly, “Right now, I want to get married. I want to say you’re my husband and I don’t want to wait a second more, you hear me?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes start to water and he nods silently, lips pressed together in what appears to be a futile attempt at keeping his composure. 

The officiant says something else. Crowley doesn’t bother listening and interrupts with a, “Look, let’s skip to the whole ‘do you take him to be your husband’ part - can you do that? Actually, nevermind, shut up, you’re boring me - Aziraphale, do you have rings for us? Because I’ll own it - turns out I forgot about those too.” 

Aziraphale nods tearfully and digs in his pocket for the small, velvet box. He pops it open and two rings are nestled right up next to each other - they’re silver, and Crowley can make out delicate, vine-like engravings along the edges. 

He had wanted to have a beautiful, romantic moment where he slid Aziraphale’s ring onto his finger and promised to love him forever. It would be recorded by the photographer lurking around, and Crowley would think back to how soft and tender the moment had been. 

But after the occult-ethereal ambush they just had to endure, he knows that he wasn’t lying when he said he couldn’t stand to wait a second longer. Part of him fears that if they don’t do this now, they’ll be interrupted again - in which case, Crowley will have to murder them, and they’ll have to waste a miracle on erasing that from everyone’s memories. 

“Give me yours - there we are. I take you to be my lawfully and unlawfully wedded spouse, I love you dearly, and this ring looks wonderful on you. You have lovely hands.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, pathetically sniffling. It’s horrible, really, that Crowley finds that as devastatingly attractive as Aziraphale’s “I Mean Business” voice. 

He smiles and takes the time to pull his almost-husband’s hands to his lips. He presses a gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s knuckles, and the tears finally spill over. 

What a sap. Sure, Crowley cried too, but not that much. 

“Now me, angel, hurry it up.” 

He watches Aziraphale tuck the ring up against his engagement ring - which is looking oddly dull, now that Crowley looks at it closely. The blue stone in the middle is looking rather gray. 

What’s the point of thinking about that, though? Now he has a wedding ring, and it matches Aziraphale’s, and really that’s all Crowley has ever wanted in the world. He lets himself have a moment of ecstatic joy before he gets back to business. “So. I love you and I’m your husband now. ‘I do’ and all that. Are you mine?” 

Aziraphale lets out a single sob and says, voice warbling, “Always, Crowley.” 

“Great! Kiss me. Now.” 

They do, and it’s glorious. Their guests cheer and clap, the officiant storms off after letting their marriage license flutter to the ground, and Crowley then grabs Aziraphale around the waist so he can dip his husband properly. 

They part, reluctantly, and Crowley licks his lips. He asks, “Why do you taste like gasoline? Not that I don’t like it! Just kinda odd.” 

Aziraphale, still a little weepy and also dazed by their kiss, says, “Uh. New toothpaste?” 

Crowley doesn’t believe that, but honestly, who cares? He kisses his husband again because he can. Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s neck and appears to be just as content to stay exactly where they are. 

Later, Crowley won’t be able to recall much of the reception outside of Aziraphale’s cheer. 

Newt came up to him at one point, grinning smugly, and said, “Told you it’d be fine.” Crowley probably punched him, or he might’ve hugged him. The details are blurry. 

He won’t bother remember the awkward handshake with Thaddeus while Harriet, well-meaning but clearly insincere, remarks about how darling of a couple they make. He will remember, though, that Aziraphale made sure they both got the crusty, burnt ends of the cake they made. 

Adam and Warlock’s cake-eating competition (refereed by Wensleydale, with Pepper and Brian acting as obnoxious cheerleaders) sticks out as well. They ended up with raspberry jam and chocolate all over their faces, and Crowley couldn’t help but wander over with a napkin to wipe them clean. Adam whined the entire time while Warlock stuck their tongue out and complained that, “Nanny, I’m not a baby!” 

Something else that stands out is the moment shortly after the ceremony where Aziraphale grabbed Anathema and pulled her roughly into a tight hug. She squeezed back and muttered something in his ear. From his spot awkwardly listening to Madame Tracy’s suggestions for their honeymoon, Crowley could only make out Aziraphale saying, “I can’t thank you enough. I’m indebted - “ before Shadwell started yelling about Greece being the birthplace of witchcraft and paganry and thus the worst possible place for a honeymoon. 

Above all else, though, he’ll remember smiling so hard his face hurts every time he gets a glimpse of his husband - the only perfect thing about the entire shebang. 

He doesn’t stop smiling until late that night when they’re cozy under the covers. 

For the first time since they started going to the Ritz, they’re seeing the hotel-end of things. Neither of them could think of anything more fitting for their first married night together - the flat has rarely had both of them there and felt impersonal in all the wrong ways. Plus, Crowley didn’t want to have to clean the kitchen after their misadventures the night before. The bookshop would do, except it doesn’t have a bed and Crowley would prefer that Aziraphale is focused on him for their wedding night rather than a book. 

He knows that their marriage will have a third party called “Every Single Book Aziraphale Has Ever Held a Slight Emotional Attachment to (Which Is Almost All Of Them)”, and that’s all well and good, but the wedding night - well, he doesn’t think his pride could stand it, honestly. They’d be on record as having one of the shortest marriages ever, since Crowley would have to die from shame of not measuring up to a collection of Oscar Wilde’s works. 

Part of him hopes he’ll be able to slowly force Wilde and his bullshit out of Aziraphale’s life over the course of their marriage. He hasn’t thought up a plan yet, but it’ll soon be in the works. If Crowley can get Aziraphale to re-read all of Jane Austen’s works, he probably won’t notice for a few months. 

“The Ritz was a wonderful idea,” Aziraphale says. His hair is delightfully mussed, curls facing this way and that. He leans down to nuzzle Crowley’s hair and sighs happily. “Just think! We’ll be able to order room service - Ritz fare, delivered right to us! In bed! Once again, humanity is a marvel.” 

Crowley, sprawled across Aziraphale, agrees. He doesn’t think there’s anything in the world he would like better than to have some kind of decadent cake delivered to them while his head is tucked up underneath Aziraphale’s chin and Aziraphale’s arms are wrapped around him. Have some young bellboy look at them enviously while unveiling a silver platter, and Crowley could die ecstatic. 

He still tries to wriggle closer, and when he succeeds, he places a small kiss on Aziraphale’s neck. “Got that right. Before that, though, you gonna tell me when you started breathing hellfire?” He says conversationally. 

Aziraphale must freeze, because his body suddenly stops breathing. “Well. Um.” 

“And it sure would’ve been nice to know how I survived being doused with holy water, because I certainly didn’t know I was immune. Think I can walk around in churches now? Go in for some Sunday mass?” 

Aziraphale pales. “Don’t. Please.” 

“Then explain, dear husband of mine. Seems like you’ve been hiding some things, hm?”


	10. in which aziraphale had his own set of adventures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s important to note that Aziraphale never intended to keep secrets from Crowley. Since the disaster that was his wretched behavior during the World-May-Be-Ending saga, Aziraphale has strived to be as honest and open as possible. It’s why he decided to confess his love and hope for the best in the first place, honestly. He loves and trusts Crowley more than anyone else in the world, and he can’t bear to keep secrets from him any longer. 
> 
> Except. 
> 
> Except, perhaps, when Crowley looked so stressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys!!!!!! we're almost done!!!! ;____; honestly when i was writing this i kind of started to hate it by the time i finished it, but now that it's almost done.... i'm actually kinda bummed haha 
> 
> anyway: we finally get aziraphale's side of things! tbh i much prefer writing from aziraphale's perspective so this chapter was fun for me to do. hopefully things line up and aren't too outside the realm of belief - i tried to foreshadow without tipping anything off blatantly. you'll have to let me know how i did! :) 
> 
> thanks for stopping by to read - hope everyone enjoys!

It’s important to note that Aziraphale never intended to keep secrets from Crowley. Since the disaster that was his wretched behavior during the World-May-Be-Ending saga, Aziraphale has strived to be as honest and open as possible. It’s why he decided to confess his love and hope for the best in the first place, honestly. He loves and trusts Crowley more than anyone else in the world, and he can’t bear to keep secrets from him any longer. 

Except. 

Except, perhaps, when Crowley looked so stressed. 

At first, he didn’t think it was worth telling Crowley about a minor, tiny visit from Gabriel. 

The visit from Gabriel was relative innocuous. Aziraphale had been holding onto the ring for almost two months (approximately a week after he and Crowley kissed for the first time, because he didn’t see the point in waiting any longer) when he showed up at the shop - and by that, Aziraphale means he had been holding onto the ring for almost two months when he turned around from organizing the biography section and Gabriel was standing there. He was already staring at him like a particularly malicious child stares at an ant hill while holding a magnifying glass. 

Aziraphale blinked. “Hello, Gabriel,” He said cautiously. “What can I do for you?” 

The archangel hadn’t said anything at first. He had merely stared at Aziraphale, unblinking purple eyes peering at him behind an unflattering squint. Aziraphale blinked again, and Gabriel leaned in closer. 

After a few more minutes of scrutiny, Gabriel had leaned back and scoffed. “Waste of time,” He said before disappearing between one breath and the next. 

Aziraphale, sadly, didn’t think he was talking about the trip he made. A little disheartened and a lot worried, he put off his proposal for another week. 

( _“You were going to propose earlier?” Crowley asks, visibly thrilled. “Why didn’t you? I mean, obviously Gabriel was going to be an issue, but why’d it stop you?”_

_“Well. I. It just gave me second thoughts. Gabriel has the unfortunate ability to rip my confidence apart without trying. I got nervous.”_

_“Aw, angel - Want me to go beat him up? I’ll do it gladly.”_

_“Maybe for our anniversary.” Aziraphale smiles and runs a hand through Crowley’s hair. Crowley leans into it with a happy hum. “Now hush. Do you want to hear the rest or not?”_ ) 

In the end, Gabriel’s visit wasn’t much of anything. Why worry Crowley? 

Things escalate, though. Aziraphale, perhaps, gets in a little over his head. 

The day that Aziraphale chose to propose on, he caught a glimpse of Dagon through one of his shop’s windows. She was wandering up and down the street opposite of the bookshop, head tilting this way and that as she carelessly tripped anyone who had the audacity to cross her path. 

Aziraphale counted three bloody noses and more than a handful of scraped knees. He paced and worried and fretted up until Crowley asked what was wrong. 

“Oh,,” Aziraphale said, forcing himself to stop wringing his hands. “Just um. Concerned about the number of customers. Seems busier than usual, doesn’t it? But really, nothing out of the normal. I’m perfectly alright.” 

“Angel, something’s clearly bothering you,” Crowley said exasperatedly. “Tell me what it is so I can help.” 

“It’s nothing,” Aziraphale insisted. “Really, my dear. Nothing to worry about.” His eyes darted towards the window again. 

“I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on, just tell me.” 

“It’s not something I require your help with, dear,” Aziraphale said, distracted by trying to find Dagon once more. “I am gently requesting that you stop pushing.” 

“And I’m forcefully requesting that you tell me what you’re hiding from me so you can stop acting all funny. Come on, angel. You’re clearly stressed. Let me help.” 

Aziraphale, torn between not wanting to lie but not wanting Crowley to worry, comes up with a devious little misdirection. 

( _“It was a lie.”_

 _“It was at worst some minor deception.”_ ) 

“I shan’t be tempted - it’s supposed to be a surprise - “ He immediately slapped a hand over his mouth, as if he had given away something he hadn’t intended, and Crowley’s descended on it like a shark finding out there was blood in the water. 

“Ohoho? A surprise?” He nuzzled against Aziraphale’s ear, ever so lovingly. “For me?” 

“No. Of course not. I hate you.” 

“You love me! You love me and you’re planning something special for me and I’m going to find out what it is.” 

Aziraphale puffed himself up and said, dramatically, “You fiend.” 

“Guilty! I’m going to go check all of your hiding places now.” 

“Don’t you dare!” 

With that, Crowley had run off, and Aziraphale was free to spend the next two hours strengthening the protections he had around the bookstore. In that time, he also ventured out to the Bentley to have a strict talk with it about protecting its precious cargo. 

Within the last two hours before Crowley finished his search, Aziraphale modified the engagement ring. It took some work, considering he took inspiration from Harry Potter’s later books [19] and wasn’t entirely sure it was physically possible when taking into account Aziraphale’s species. [20]

( _“I wasn’t exactly lying when I said your ring had a bit of me in it.”_ ) 

It had been a black band with a traditional diamond, but by the time Aziraphale was done with it, the diamond was no longer really a diamond. The blue stone, chemical makeup unknown with its recent addition and therefore unnameable, had just the tiniest smidge of Aziraphale within. 

In Aziraphale’s opinion, it made a nice addition to the whole event. Made it more personal, even if Crowley would, hopefully, never have cause to find out about what Aziraphale had done. 

The after-effects of doing so had Aziraphale sweating and plowing through his proposal, but in the end Crowley put the ring on and his demon was as well-protected against holy weapons as he could be. 

With Crowley’s protection more-or-less taken care of, Aziraphale decided to focus on his own. Part of him felt guilty about doing so - despite Metatron’s words during the Apocalypse and Heaven’s reactions since, Aziraphale felt uncomfortable doubting those he used to believe in so fervently. He wanted to believe that they would cut their losses and leave him be. 

Then, while he was packing up the car before they were to visit with Anathema and Newt, Sandalphon appeared and dissolved any lingering loyalty. Leaning against the Bentley with, he smiled smugly and waved at Aziraphale.

“Sandalphon,” Aziraphale said, barely hiding his distaste. Then he reflected on his tone and realized he wasn’t hiding it at all. 

Shame. 

“Aziraphale,” He returned brightly. “Heaven’s heard a nasty little rumor about you. You and that demon pet of yours. Isn’t that funny?” 

“It would depend on the rumor, I suppose.” 

“It’s quite hilarious. I’m sure you’ll get a laugh out of it too.” He leaned in as if he was going to tell Aziraphale a secret, and he said lowly, “We heard that you’re getting married.” 

Aziraphale stood up straighter and said, “Yes. We are.” 

“What a hoot!” Sandalphon cackled. “You really think that’s - what, you think it’s okay? You’re a riot.” His laughter cut off, and a calculating look replaced the humor. “You must know that we won’t let this stand. We haven’t figured out how you pulled that trick upstairs, but give us enough time and we’ll get it. Then this farce - this abomination will be destroyed. Him, you, the marriage - poof. Gone.” 

“Sandalphon - “ 

“And really - You can’t honestly think that our Creator would approve? We’ll be doing Her a favor, taking this into our own hands.” 

“You don’t think our continued survival is indicative of Her approval?” Aziraphale asked. He tilted his head to the side curiously. “Believe me, there have been plenty of opportunities for Her to demonstrate Her disapproval if there was any. My surviving the execution that Heaven planned - I don’t think you can get much clearer of a sign than that.” 

“A fluke,” Sandalphon said. 

“A sign,” Aziraphale repeated. “Now unless you’re actually going to say something useful - “ 

There was some more bickering until Sandalphon took off. Here, again, Aziraphale thought about telling Crowley. 

( _“Would’ve been a good call if you had. Probably would’ve been good for me to know that you were being stalked by literally everyone who hates us.”_

_“That’s an exaggeration, I was hardly being stalked.”_

_“You weren’t not being stalked - they were doing the heavenly equivalent of cornering you in a back alley to mug you!”_ ) 

But, again - Crowley seemed ever so stressed. He hadn’t been yelling at his plants for weeks. Aziraphale had caught him complimenting the rose bush. In theory, this would be wonderful. Crowley’s garden is a lush paradise, and Aziraphale has, blasphemously, compared it to Eden and found Eden lacking. 

Crowley doesn’t compliment the plants, though. He screams and raves and insults them, they somehow grow all the better for it, and Crowley struts around like a peacock. 

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with his behavior - and part of him, shamefully, feared that Crowley’s stress was indicative of something horrible. Was he having second thoughts? Did he regret agreeing to marry him? What if Crowley was trying to find a way to gently let Aziraphale know that, while he values their friendship, this whole marriage thing was maybe a bit much? 

( _Aziraphale never used to ask questions, and he’d like to take a moment to point out that they’re awfully tiring._ ) 

So Aziraphale said nothing, afraid to rock the boat, and this led to their spur-of-the-moment bachelors’ parties. 

Anathema really had plans for her and Aziraphale - nothing so exciting as what Crowley and Newt ended up doing, but she had an idea for a ritual to prank Heaven [21] and had their relationships (or lack thereof) with Heaven and Hell been as settled down as they hoped for, it would’ve been a rip roaring time. 

Instead, the moment Crowley and Newt were out of sight, Aziraphale turned to her and immediately spilled everything. 

”You should talk to Crowley,” She said at least six times. “You’re marrying him, and this is something you should handle together! Your last version of your vows literally included a section about how you would stand with him against your old sides no matter what!” 

“Yes but I meant that in a romantic way - in a practical way, I don’t want to bother him if I’m overreacting.” 

“Overreac - you’ve been harassed by three angels and spotted a demon wandering around. What about that is overreacting?” She stared at him, bewildered. 

Aziraphale shrugged helplessly. “I - well, I’ve always been rather… soft.” 

“Soft,” She said skeptically. 

“Sensitive.” 

“You held a bazooka to an eleven year old’s head.” 

Aziraphale said, defensively, “It wasn’t a bazooka! It was at best a glorified potato launcher.” 

They eventually agreed to disagree. They also agreed that the most logical course of action would for Aziraphale to learn how to breathe fire. [22]

Anathema, thanks to one of Agnes’s first prophecies likely intended for one of her ancestors that had been in the entertainment business, had gone through a fire eating phase when she was sixteen. She hadn’t been very good at it, as evidenced by the shiny scar along the bottom of her lip, but she knew the theory. 

( _“She knew the THEORY?”_

_“It wasn’t like I used hellfire, darling. I was perfectly fine despite some… mishaps - “_

_“SOME mishaps?”_

_“Honestly, it was quite lucky that you and Newt were as drunk as you were. I was surprised that you didn’t notice that the couch was charred.”_ ) 

From there, it was figuring out how to make the entire show look natural - or, in the fire’s case, supernatural. Aziraphale’s sleight of hand dealt with hiding the lighter, and Anathema’s wedding gift to them was a glamor charm that would ensure everyone who saw Aziraphale with fire would automatically assume it was hellfire. 

Hence Aziraphale’s grateful, painfully relieved hug he gave her after their ceremony. 

In the end, Aziraphale felt a little bad for not telling Crowley. But in the end, it all worked out, so he hopes that his favorite, most beloved, and most handsome husband could find it in his demonic heart to forgive an old fool. 

( _“Laying it on a bit thick there, angel.”_

_“Yes, well. I’m very sorry for keeping all of this from you. It’s just - ”_

_“The only thing you should be sorry for is thinking that I ever didn’t want to marry you - I seriously don’t know how much more obvious I can get. You’ve always been the most important thing to me. For fuck’s sake, I spent months being nice to my plants trying to get your flowers right!”_

_“Oh, but they turned out perfectly! The lilies looked just like that one star system, the pink one - you know the one I’m talking about.”_

_“Er - I do, actually.”_ ) 

19 Horcruxes sounded so nasty the first time Aziraphale read the sixth book, but in this case, he feels rather romantic. Giving up a piece of yourself to protect the one you love most in the world - Aziraphale thinks that’s a reasonable trade. [return to text]

20The ethereal tend to understand human souls quite well - at the very least, they know how to get human souls to where they need to be post-death. Their own beings are a little harder to define. Therefore, it’s hard to tell if it’s possible to snip off a bit of their eternal core and pass it off. 

Luckily for Aziraphale and Crowley, they’ve never been much confined to what’s possible. [return to text]

21Anathema had found out a way to modify the circle Aziraphale used to contact Metatron so Metatron couldn’t see them - she thought it’d be hilarious to ask him if his fridge was running. 

Unfortunately, it was rather ambitious of her to assume that Metatron would know what a refrigerator is. The prank would’ve been disappointing had they attempted it. [return to text]

22Their other ideas were somehow more ludicrous than breathing fire. None are worth mentioning. [return to text]


	11. in which all's well that ends well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're done!!! ;_____; happily ever after folks. we made it. 
> 
> thank you thank you thank you for sticking w/me through this!!! i'm on tumblr at dissatisfied-starlight if you'd like to be pals!! and keep an eye out for starcatcherbetty - they've asked to do a podfic of this!!! i'm so excited to hear it once they're done w/it guys, i've never had a podfic made for one of my fics before <3 
> 
> i hope that everyone had a good time reading and seeing the end~

The Ritz had only been the first stop on their honeymoon. 

They visited plenty of their old haunts, but that wasn’t why they took the trip. For the most part, they focused on making new memories. 

Crowley bought Aziraphale his first cell phone - Aziraphale made Crowley ride a roller coaster with him - They spent a week learning how to make pottery - On a bridge in Pittsburgh, they put a lock on the rails and Aziraphale ate the key in a misguided romantic gesture - 

Newt would later argue that their honeymoon has lasted longer than it had any right to, considering they took breaks from said honeymoon and returned to the bookshop when they got tired of traveling. 

Aziraphale, after a sip of his tea, responds caustically with, “We’re six thousand years old and we saved the world, my dear boy. We can do whatever the fuck we want.” 

Newt wants to point out that they hadn’t really done all that much, but Anathema senses the danger and stomp on his foot while saying, “Have a cookie, Aziraphale. Where are you two going next?” 

Crowley never expected them to understand what he and Aziraphale were doing. Their lives were so short, in comparison. A week or two might be enough for them to properly appreciate each other, to settle in as spouses, to really understand what they’ve done in binding themselves to each other for the rest of their lives. For two immortal beings, promising “forever” means something a lot different. 

Rather than begrudge them, he laughs and wraps an arm around Aziraphale. Kisses his forehead while he huffily shoves sweets into his mouth. And he says, “Alpha Centauri’s lovely this time of year, you know.” 

“Is it?” Aziraphale asks coyly. “I suppose we must, then.” 

So they go to Alpha Centauri, finally. 

It’s a month or so later when they return to London for good - their extended honeymoon finally complete - and Crowley stops by his flat while Aziraphale tries to sleep off their jet lag. Things aren’t dusty, as he stopped by just frequently enough to miracle the place clean and water his plants. 

His plants, who he still has some mixed feelings about.

He had purposefully not paid them much attention during his brief visits. He hadn’t done anything more than make sure they had enough sun and water, busying himself with treating and loving his husband, wholly. 

Now, he finally looks at them. Takes them in completely. 

Not one has wilted in his absence - if anything, they look significantly healthier than before he left. All of the greenery is lush and strong. The baby’s breath almost sparkles. The lilies are still pink, but there’s more than there had been. 

The rose bush, cocky bastard that it is, has blossomed in a whole spectrum of colors. White, blue, gray, red, yellow, pink, purple, green - every color and almost every shade in between. It’s a monstrosity, honestly. 

Crowley sighs. Takes a deep breath after the sigh and releases it gustily. He does a few more repetitions to kill some time. Then, he says, “Yeah, you’re alright. All of you. And you - “ He turns to the rose bush, which perks up. “You were right to tell me off. Eggshell fit better than cream. Guess a little rebellion never hurt anyone.” 

It straightens haughtily, proud and smug. Crowley reads it for what it is - a happy, “I told you so,” a smug one, but not a malicious one. 

Its leaves part just enough for Crowley to see what must be a peace offering - a cream rose with at least a hundred thorns. 

“Bastard,” Crowley says, with feeling. “You’re really one of mine. I’m almost proud, you little shit.” 

He takes it, plucks off some of the thorns, heads back to the bookshop, and hands it to Aziraphale when he wakes up. Aziraphale wears it on the lapel of his coat for the rest of the week. 

He even lets a few customers in so he can say, proudly, “Oh, this? My husband grew it for me. Isn’t it lovely? I’m very lucky.” 

Then he kisses Crowley (intensity dependent on how persistent the customer had been in their purchasing attempts) and shoos them out - of course he does, or else he wouldn’t be the angel that Crowley fell in love with. 

And God, does he love him. 

In the end, the wedding wasn’t perfect. Their honeymoon was fun, but it wasn’t perfect either (that key was NOT easy to miracle out of Aziraphale’s stomach.) Their marriage, marvelous and loving as it is, also isn’t going to be perfect. 

Crowley’s garden isn’t perfect, Crowley isn’t perfect, and as much as he loves Aziraphale, he isn’t perfect either[23]. 

And that’s all okay. Crowley wouldn’t change a damn thing. 

23See: Aziraphale’s overprotective need to do things for “Crowley’s own good,” his fussiness, and The Key-Eating Incident. [return to text]

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dearly Beloved [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227633) by [StarcatcherBetty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarcatcherBetty/pseuds/StarcatcherBetty)




End file.
